Origami Soul
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: The mind is a delicate thing, but a careful man can fold it to his will. When Peter gets news that Neal is coming back to his team after months in DC, he's thrilled, but when they're taken by an unknown enemy it quickly becomes apparent something is wrong with his friend. Now Peter must convince a terrorized Neal they're on the same side before his delusions get them killed.
1. Prologue

If you would like to read this on Livejournal, you can find it at: pucktheperv+DOT+livejournal+DOT+com+SLASH+tag+SLASH+origamisoul**  
**

**Title:** Origami Soul  
**Author:** Amory Puck (pucktheperv on LJ & Tumblr)  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Fandom:** White Collar  
**Warnings: **Slash, non-con, dub-con, angst, h/c, physical & mental torture  
**Pairings:** Peter/Neal, Kramer/Neal, Other DC Agent/Neal

o o o

**Summary:** The mind is a delicate thing, but a careful man can fold it to his will. When Peter gets news that Neal is coming back to his team after months in DC, he's thrilled, but when they're taken by an unknown enemy it quickly becomes apparent that something is wrong with his friend. Now Peter must convince a terrorized, brainwashed Neal that they're on the same side before his delusions get them both killed. (AU where Neal is taken to DC at the end of the 3rd season.)

**Author's Notes: ** For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo on LJ**. I'm not real fond of possession, despite being a major Supernatural fan, so I went the mind control route. As always, this story will have a happy ending no matter how angsty it gets!

o o o

**Prologue**

Neal was feeling cocky as he walked along, absentmindedly making a little crane out of a Wanted poster of himself he'd filched from the Marshals. He knew Peter wouldn't think it was anything to be proud of, but Neal deserved *some* credit. He'd leaped from tram car to tram car with a stolen Raphael in one hand for God's sake! And he'd actually done it without falling to his death! Not that dying with a Raphael tucked under your arm was such a terrible way to go, but he probably would have gone straight to hell for ruining that kind of masterpiece.

One thing his stint with the FBI couldn't change was the fact that the take was always exciting. Exhilarating. The daring romance of it all was like being part of a movie, or maybe a cable TV show where the smartly dressed super criminal foiled the desperate FBI agent at every turn using his great intelligence, charming good looks, and quick wit. It was like he could do anything, be anything, and no one could stop him. Well, except maybe a certain Special Agent with poor taste in pass-times and mustard stains on his shirt cuffs. But, hey, he and Peter were playing for the same team now (the unavoidable lecture he was sure to get later for his little tram car gymnastics aside) and this feeling, the pumping adrenaline that came from just *barely* getting away with it, put a bounce in his step.

This feeling of confidence, of power, of *purpose* was a rush that even foiling the plans of Interpol's most wanted couldn't give him. It reminded him of the good old days of plotting clever cons with Kate and Moz, of making spectacular grabs then repelling from twelve story buildings before anyone even knew he was there, of toying with the FBI as he was on the run, leaving little trinkets and cards for this "Special Agent Burke" whose obsession with catching Neal Caffrey had bordered on infatuation.

Or that was how Neal had seen it at the time, anyway. Maybe it was a little egotistical, thinking that way about Peter Burke. Okay, maybe it was a lot egotistical. Unmitigated ego. But Neal flirted through his cons. It was just what he did. Like a peacock flaunting its feathers. And Kate wasn't the only one he'd been trying to impress. Somewhere along the line Neal guessed that he'd convinced himself that this cunning, if somewhat less than refined, agent had been doing the same. Actually, by the time Peter had caught up to him, Neal had been so sure of it that he'd half expected the man to try and woo him from the front seat of the police cruiser.

Things had not gone exactly to plan. Neal Caffrey played with lockpicks and paintbrushes. Peter Burke, on the other hand, played with badges and guns. A whole different kind of man, which meant a whole different view of the world. Peter probably hadn't even realized that Neal had been teasing him.

Neal found out, quickly enough, that what he called flirting, Special Agent Peter Burke called insolence—or, in more plebeian terms, being a smart ass. Every time Neal tried to impress the man, to show him that Neal Caffrey was more than just a talented crook in a designer suit, somehow it always managed to end with Peter making his disappointed face as he prepped for his next lecture on honesty and virtue and all that crap. But when Neal just let things roll and didn't try to play with the other man, they were amazing together.

In the end, all of the flaunting and flirting had gotten him nothing. The daring, supposedly romantic life he'd been living had earned Kate an early death and himself a life on a leash, being treated like a pimply teenager who couldn't be trusted to make a single decision on his own lest he knock up the cheerleader after prom.

He knew that Moz thought it was the leash that he should be fighting, not the constant urges to run back to his old life of spectacular crime. But what had his life as a conman ever actually gotten him? Everything he'd gained had been equaled by losses. No, that wasn't right. The losses were *greater* than the gains. He'd be in debt for the rest of his life and beyond, because no famous paintings forged or expensive gems swiped could ever fix the overdraft on his heart. The things that had been lost… they couldn't be made up in currency.

His time with the FBI may not have involved staying at fancy hotels pretending to be minor royalty from Nigeria or slipping into so-called "uncrackable safes" just to prove that no design was advanced enough—or *creative* enough—to stop Neal Caffrey. But it gave him a life. Not Nick Halden's or Steve Tabernacle's or Victor Moreau's life, but his—Neal George Caffrey's—life.

And yeah, okay, maybe this new life couldn't quite match the invigorating high that running con after con after con gave you—but the point of a high was that eventually you had to come down from it or it would destroy you. And if you had to come down, you might as well be Neal Caffrey. Nice clothes, a fantastic home, the kind of job that most people had to graduate from Harvard to score, and, most importantly, friends. Not the kind of friends you made in the underworld, the ones that you could never put your back to for risk of getting stabbed, but the kind of friends that you could trust to support you, no payment necessary. These were the kind of friends who cared more about *you* than they cared about how well you could pull off being someone else. And, more than anything, these were the kind of friends that you would never find lying in a pool of their own blood with a bullet to the brain, execution style.

Neal *really* didn't like guns. Mostly because they came with *really* bad memories.

So, cocky attitude aside, he was starting to wonder if he even cared about his commutation. In the words of Elizabeth's ever-so-expressive cake, he'd 'keep hanging in there.' Because, in all honesty, he never planned to leave. But if he was made a free man, it was a chance to prove to Peter that he really was more than a criminal with good people skills. It was a chance to prove to the man that he was really a person, no, that he was really a *friend*—and *not* the kind who would stab you in the back the second you turned away. The kind that was there for you and supported you and cared about you.

Neal tipped off his lucky fedora, sticking the little crane into its band and flipping the hat smoothly from hand to hand just for the fun of it as he walked along, a smile on his face. This really was a chance for a whole new life. Now, if could just pry out of Peter what he'd said at his hearing…

"Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest for public endangerment."

Before Neal even had time to fully process the words, someone grabbed him around the waist, tackling him hard and knocking his hat from his hands, his pretty little crane making its first and only flight as it tumbled into a puddle. As they fell to the ground Neal tried to turn enough to hit the man's face with his elbow, but only succeeded in slamming his own head against the concrete. The last thing he saw before he completely blacked out was a fuzzy image of Peter staring down at him from the top of the steps… with Agent Kramer and half a dozen Marshals at his side.

So much for friendship.


	2. Ch 1: Pain to Bear

If you would like to read this on Livejournal, you can find it at: pucktheperv+DOT+livejournal+DOT+com+SLASH+tag+SLASH+origamisoul**  
**

**See prologue for warnings and summary.**

o o o

**Author's Notes: ** For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo on LJ**. I'm not real fond of possession, despite being a major Supernatural fan, so I went the mind control route. As always, this story will have a happy ending no matter how angsty it gets!

o o o

**Chapter 1: Pain to Bear  
**

Neal carried the file up the stairs leading to the main offices, careful to keep his eyes firmly on the floor. He had learned early that it was better to avoid looking around. Not looking someone in the eye when they wanted you to could cause problems, but being caught glancing around like he was casing the room or trying to steal files or just plain being insolent was much, much worse. Best to keep his head down and his eyes where they would be least likely to earn him any discipline marks. He still had bruises from Friday when he had gained more marks than he usually racked up in a week in one fell swoop.

It had been pretty bad. Agent Billings had caught him at the vending machine with two quarters already in the slot—definitely no plausible deniability there. He hadn't even gotten the chance to explain that the new probie had asked him to get her some chips. Actually, he hadn't even *tried* to explain. It was his fault. He had broken a rule. Look like you might be doing something you aren't supposed to, get punished.

There were a lot of rules that ended with "get punished," but this was particularly bad since Neal wasn't even allowed to carry money and, therefore, it could be supposed that he'd stolen the change. Guilty until proven innocent—or, in his case, guilty until declared guilty. Billings hadn't said a word out loud—the first rule of training was that you didn't talk about training, right?—but when he'd held up five fingers, closed his fist, then opened it again, Neal had wanted, more than anything, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Ten discipline marks for trying to be nice to the new girl on the team. Agent Billings probably thought he'd been trying to flirt, though nowadays he was lucky if that got him more than a pitiable glance. He wasn't exactly eye candy anymore. But he hadn't been flirting, he really hadn't. He knew who he belonged to, he did, he did, he did. Neal had tried to give him a little one to make up for it, a tiny bear made out of an ad torn from one of Kramer's old Guns and Ammo magazines, but Billings had wrinkled him up in front of Neal and thrown him in the trash, then raised another finger. One more mark against Neal, one more little death, and he hadn't even been able to rescue little bear from the bin that day.

It really wasn't officially defined, what a discipline mark cost you. It could be anything from scrubbing floors to being stuck in a dark closet to a straight up punch in the gut. But to have earned ten—no, *eleven*-in a day… The punishment had been terrible. Neal hadn't hurt that much since his first night under Agent Billings' care. It had been almost a week since, but his muscles still cried out when he moved and he had to grit his teeth together before he could even make himself sit in a chair, much less take a shit.

Neal took a deep breath and opened the door to Agent Kramer's office as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract the man's attention. It was best to treat the agent like a GSO 1217 alarm system with a Mantegro 4.0 silent backup. Also known as very, very carefully.

Kramer hardly glanced up as Neal set the folder as quietly as possible into the man's inbox then silently lifted his coffee mug up. As always, the stupid saying about honor and justice inscribed on the front made Neal wish he could roll his eyes without gaining a discipline mark, but the scent of the cheap, lukewarm roast was what really beckoned him to do evil. Just one little sip… It would almost be worth a beating. Almost. God, Neal missed coffee. Alas, it really *wasn't* worth another dislocated shoulder. Neal dropped his eyes back to the floor and headed off to do his housewife duties like a good Bureau slave.

It was twenty-two steps to the coffee maker, diagonally across the room, then one step to the right to place himself as close to the wall as possible while still being in reach of the pot. It might make him look like a cowering little boy, hiding against the wall, but it made him feel safer and it wasn't like he could possibly look any more pitiful than he already did. The over-masculinized assholes who worked this floor were not above "accidentally" ramming Neal into shelves like a high school jock trying justify the fact that his left testicle had yet to drop.

Of course, it wasn't just the meathead agents. Neal also spent several minutes of every day acting like he didn't understand what the male secretary meant when he mouthed the word 'faggot' in Neal's general direction, but he might as well let the guy feel like a man for a moment. He was a *male* secretary after all.

Neal guessed that the stories about him wafting around the office were just too much for the cavemen in their Walmart khakis and their cheap ties to resist. He wasn't sure who, exactly, had started the rumor that every heist he'd ever run depended on him sucking off at least one balding, middle aged man, but he hoped it really made them all feel like men, because their mix of thick glasses and pocket protectors screamed '40 year old virgins.'

"Hey Caffrey," a cheerful voice said from behind him, and Neal raised his eyes from the safety of the floor just long enough to give Agent Matthews a small, if somewhat forced, smile. For some reason Agent Matthews liked to talk to him, not that she ever got much of a response.

Neal was pretty much a mute these days, unless he was specifically told to speak or he broke and couldn't hold back his disgust at the way the agent at the desk across from his would shove entire hamburgers in his mouth at once. Either the lady agent had *really* forged a bond with him over those martinis during the U-boat fiasco or she just felt really sorry for him. But hey, he'd take a little kindness where he could get it.

The first time he'd walked in with a noticeable burn, Matthews had insisted that he needed to go to a care center and get something for it.

"_Oh, Neal, how did that *happen?* When did you get so *clumsy*? I hope it isn't *infected*! You need to get someone to look at it!"_

She'd gone on and on and on until Neal had finally dragged her into the copy room, slammed the door shut behind them, and told her flat out that Special Agent Billings had decided no medical attention was necessary and, therefore, no medical attention was necessary. Insisting on said medical attention would do nothing more than lead to a greater need for medical attention.

She had stared at him blankly for a long moment before realization dawned in her eyes and a horrified look came over her face. Neal hadn't hung around to find out whether or not she'd fully understood the implications of his words, but apparently she hadn't run off and told anyone because he hadn't gotten any discipline marks that day.

The next time he'd come in with a burn, Agent Matthews had made a beeline for his desk. Neal already had three escape plans in work by the time she made it (over the stacks and under the empty desk in the corner, crawl on hands and knees to the door using a rolling chair for cover, sprint to the window and try to hide behind the curtains) but she had only come to a stop and started babbling on and on about how she'd just seen 'Phantom of the Opera' and it was so good and the chandelier actually crashed down on the audience and that he totally needed to see it because it was really something a man like him would appreciate.

Neal had simply stared at her, unsure when, exactly, they had become Broadway buddies. Then, right as she was describing how the Phantom swung across the ceiling, he heard a soft thud in his trashcan. She had gone on for a few more minutes—"Oh my gosh, I nearly *screamed* when the chandelier fell!"—before abruptly remembering some filing she needed to do. After giving her a few minutes to fully remove herself from the crime scene, Neal had bent down and found a tube of aloe vera cream sitting atop the crumpled memos and wrinkled origami animals he'd sacrificed to Billings earlier that day. She was no Mozzie, but it was a good first drop. Billings didn't catch her, anyway, and it did make the burn feel a lot better.

"Nice day, huh?" Agent Matthews said with an obviously feigned cool.

Neal nodded, more because he was expected to than because he cared about the weather, and picked up the pot, carefully pouring the coffee into Kramer's mug. One envelope of Sweet N Low, one half of those little creamers that come in a pre-packaged packs of forty, stir twice, and the coffee was ready—

"Hey Neal…"

He flinched slightly at the unexpected feeling of Agent Matthews' fingers on his arm then smiled sheepishly, trying to act as though a grown man flinching when a woman half his size brushed his arm was completely normal.

"I think Agent Kramer wants you."

Neal froze at the words, sheepish smile fading and shoulders tensing. Kramer wanted him? For what? He still had a full twenty-seven seconds to make the trip back to Kramer's office before he missed his two-minute coffee run deadline. He turned slowly, eyes widening as Kramer did the two finger point right at him, gesturing for him to come to his office. At least Neal hoped it was just the two finger point and not a subtle way of giving him discipline marks for… for… well, for something. Smiling at Agent Matthews, maybe?

Discipline marks were tricky. Neal didn't always know why he got them. He was supposed to catalog everything he did during the day that might deserve a mark and then, that night, report to Billings just how many discipline marks he had earned, but it was kind of a lose-lose situation. If his estimation was lower than Billings', the marks got doubled. If it was higher, Neal got those anyway.

He swallowed hard, clenching the mug in his hand as he carefully made his way across the room toward the office, leaving a worried looking Agent Matthews behind. He took a steadying breath as he reached for the door, pulling it open and slipping inside, silently setting Kramer's mug down on its coaster.

"Take a seat, boy."

Neal forced down the panic at the words as he slowly lowered himself into one of the two plastic chairs facing Kramer's desk. He needed to calm down. It was just a little break in the routine. It wasn't that big of a deal. There had even been a time, though it seemed like forever ago, when Neal had done different things everyday. He'd rolled with the punches and came up fine and dandy. Maybe Kramer just wanted to tell him to put two Sweet N Lows in his coffee from now on.

Kramer leaned over, punching a button on his phone. "Billings, get over here."

Okay, maybe it was more than just a change in Sweet N Low to coffee consistency. That didn't mean it was anything *bad*… Oh, who was he kidding? *Anything* that involved Special Agent Billings was destined to be bad.

Neal jumped a little as the door to Kramer's office opened behind him and he clenched his fists in an attempt to hide the shaking of his hands. He'd spent enough time bound and blindfolded to know the heavy footsteps behind him anywhere. Agent Billings.

"What's up, Phillip?" Billing's meaty hand clamped down hard on Neal's shoulder and he did his best not to flinch too noticeably.

"It seems that the time has come for our little CI to make a visit to his home office," Kramer said, holding up the memo Neal had brought him. "It seems, after hearing all the reports of our success in reforming Mr. Caffrey, that Agent Burke has finally decided he's ready to give him a test ride down in New York."

Fear raced down Neal's spine at the words and he actually let out a whimper. New York? They were sending him back to New York? Why would they do that? Had he done something wrong? They couldn't send him back there! Why, why, why would they send him back? Whatever Neal had done wrong, he'd fix it, as long as they didn't send him back there. Didn't send Neal back to *him*.

Neal's hand slipped into the pocket of his pants, fingers brushing thick folds of paper. He couldn't go back. He couldn't.

Billings laughed loudly as Neal blinked back tears, fat fingers digging into Neal's collarbone. "A test ride. I like that." Another hand appeared, this one running along Neal's cheek then firmly cupping his chin, tipping his head until he was staring right into Billings' eyes, the man's thumb still stroking his cheek like a cruel parody of a lover.

Neal felt his stomach turn. A test ride? Peter was ready to give him a *test ride*? Billings' hands, so big and warm and terrifying emphasized the point and he shuddered, not wanting to believe it, wanting so, so bad to pretend that it wasn't real, but he didn't have that luxury anymore.

Back when they'd worked together, Peter had never looked at Neal that way, even when Neal had been flirting so hard that he was practically sitting in the man's lap. Hell, even *El* had noticed and teased him about how he better not steal her honey away. Something he had, of course, replied was impossible since a) her beauty and wit was unparalleled and b) she didn't have whiskers so Peter would never have to worry about carpet burns on his face from kissing. It had become a joke between the two, though there had been that one night…

Peter had been out late on a stake out and Neal, feeling unusually lonely in his little apartment with no one to share it with, had shown up unexpectedly on the Burkes' front porch. Kate was heavy on his mind and he really just wanted someone to talk to who wouldn't judge. El, in all her kindness, had been the obvious choice.

He had done his best to keep up his carefree facade but, after a few glasses of wine he had caved in and everything had spilled out. The pain of losing Kate, first because of some stupid music box, then again in prison, then forever, all because he had been stupid enough to flaunt a theft he hadn't done. The terror and excitement of being on the run and the insatiable need to prove himself to a man he had never spoken to but knew everything about. A good man, a strong man, a man to be respected and relied on. A man so much like the father Neal had always imagined having yet so much like the person he had always imagined loving. The knowledge that, when it had come down to the wire, Kate sitting in that plane, he had really planned to say goodbye to her and stay with Peter. And it was this betrayal that had most likely led to her untimely death.

El had hugged him close as tears ran down his cheeks and he made drunken declarations of his unworthiness, citing how badly he had failed Kate and how Peter, the man he had tried so hard to prove himself to, didn't even want to be his friend—words he had quickly followed with an apology for even talking about his foolish, head-in-the-clouds misconception that Peter was the kind of person who would ever look at a man like Neal, much less love him, even if he didn't have the most perfect partner in the world.

But sweet El had waved his apology away like it was nonsense, cradling him in her arms as she smiled down at him. "You know, Neal," she had said, voice low and gentle, "Peter *does* love you. There is *no* question about that."

To which Neal had replied, rather miserably, but he could blame that on the booze, "Not like he loves *you.*"

El's laugh had been beautiful. "That's true. But there are two sides to that coin, Neal. He doesn't love you like he loves me. But he also doesn't love *me* like he loves *you*. The world isn't black and white, sweetie. Before Peter caught you, I used to joke that he needed to take some time off because it was damn hard to compete with a man like Neal Caffrey. Peter would get this embarrassed little look and try pretend he *hadn't* dedicated an entire wall in the study to you. Photos, bills, maps, identities, letters. It was an enormous collage of Neal Caffrey, with one of your old forgeries hanging in a fancy frame in the middle of it all. But I was never threatened, Neal."

"Because Peter and I could never have what you two have," he'd said quietly, filling in the blanks.

El had laughed again and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Exactly. Just like Peter and I can never have what *you* two have. And how Peter will never have with me what I have with you. Don't you understand, sweetie? No one can take another person's place in someone's life. We're too different, too unique. You can't forge a person. We all have our own special place."

She had paused then, cocking her head to the side, studying Neal's face. "It's just a lot harder for Peter to admit how he feels about you. Loving me is simple. Loving you… not so much. But I've told him before, and I'll tell you now. You two have something special. Exactly how you want to define it is up to you guys. But you can't deny that it's something good. The problem is that you two speak a different language when it comes to showing people you care. You write sonnets and Peter says 'hon.' Unfortunately, Peter was never much of a linguist. If you want to get anywhere with him, you're going to have to learn to speak his language." She had paused then, giving him a mischievous wink. "If you know what I mean, _buddy_."

Neal's breath had caught in his throat. At the time that had seemed like the best thing in the world, the thought that maybe he *hadn't* been a total fool. Maybe he just wasn't seeing what was in front of his face. There were a lot of things about Peter he didn't understand, after all. First and foremost, how he could wear the same suit day after day without feeling like a heel. Or why he would have given up a chance at a Fortune 500 job to chase bad guys. Or what, exactly, the phrase "cowboy up" was supposed to mean. Maybe he *did* have a chance with Peter. It had been a light in the darkness.

Now, however, it made him want to bury his face in his hands and scream. Neal didn't know what to call the things Billings did to him, but it wasn't sex, not as Neal had once known it. It was terror ad pain and… and… God, he couldn't even describe what it was, but Peter knew about it, encouraged it, commanded it. Neal had been forced to listen as Billings had described it graphically to Peter over the phone, as he hid under the desk at Billings' feet, carefully folding little scraps of paper with shaking hands, forming the only friends he had. Oh God, and the videos. The videos… Billings, a ski mask hiding his face as he forced Neal to call him 'Peter' or 'Agent Burke'…

Billings had sworn that Peter had requested them himself, though at first Neal found that a hard to believe. But over the months he had begun to see. What El saw in Peter when he spoke about Neal wasn't love. It was obsession. A very dangerous obsession. A need to have him, posses him. Peter had made more than his fair share of comments about how Neal was on his leash, after all.

Neal wasn't the man he used to be anymore, but it was for the best. For the best. It was, for everyone. The old him meant pain, so much pain. Neal hadn't even dared to think about the possibility of pulling any sort of con job since his first few weeks in DC. He wasn't Neal Caffrey anymore, but he also wasn't a criminal, so it was okay. It was. Now the thought of stealing or conning or fencing actually made him feel physically ill, not because of any morals that they'd managed to instill in him, but because now there were inescapable consequences for even the smallest misstep. And the consequences were very, very bad.

Maybe Peter would stick him in that shitty motel he'd stayed in for less than 24 hours before meeting June. "Snake Eyes," the old man at the front counter had called him. He knew he wouldn't be going back to June's. It was too nice there. Too comfortable. It would be a reward he hadn't earned—and rewards did *not* come free.

The motel was the most likely option. Maybe Peter would put special locks on the doors and they'd both pretend that Neal couldn't pick them if he wanted to. Hopefully he wouldn't bind him to the bed. Because zip ties, Billings' favorite form of bondage, were not the kind of thing you could pick, and not being able to use the bathroom when you needed to could lead to some very humiliating situations. Not that most of Neal's life these days wasn't humiliating.

The first thing that Agent Billings had done when Kramer dropped Neal off at his house was to strip him down, tie him to a chair, and buzz off his hair. The act didn't seem like such a big deal in hindsight, but psychologically it had been devastating. It made it crystal clear that Neal Caffrey was no longer in control. Billings could do whatever he wanted and Neal had no say. In just a few minutes he had totally changed how Neal looked (definitely for the worse) and there had not been a single thing he could do to stop him. He'd then proceeded to put Neal into the nastiest looking clothes he'd ever seen and taken him out to dinner. Well, to sit while Billings ate dinner, anyway, his face burning at the idea of what all these people must think of him.

Oh, he had tried to protest. He was Neal Caffrey, after all, and he wasn't known for doing nothing. Billings' fists had quickly put things in perspective, but even then it had taken a while to break him.

The physical abuse had been bad, but it was the constant mental torture that really pushed him to the edge. Being forced to beg for water or to eat off of the floor had made Neal's face burn and tears come to his eyes. But the worst times were in the bedroom. Well, "in the bedroom" in a metaphorical sense, considering that Billings had no qualms about proving his manhood on the kitchen table or with Neal's face planted on the toilet seat. It was more than embarrassing, it was dehumanizing.

Billings had even managed to get Neal a "secondary GPS tracker," citing all the times that Neal had cut his tracker during his stay in New York as a reason to order the specially made system. Neal, however, knew that it wasn't about tracking him. If they'd really just wanted a more foolproof tracker then they would have put it around his ankle. This… this *thing* went around his throat like a collar. It was solid metal and had permanent locks—the two halves snapped together around his neck, permanently bonding them. He couldn't pick it because there was nothing to pick. It would take a special saw to get it off. Neal wasn't sure if it was even really a tracking device or if they were just trying to humiliate him, but they had definitely succeeded in the latter. More than once Billings had tied a leash to it and dragged him around the house on his hands and knees.

But none of that had really been enough to ruin him. Two and a half weeks into his so-called "training" and he was still Neal Caffrey at heart. He was still Neal Caffrey because he truly believed, whatever may have seemed to go down the day he'd been arrested, that Peter would come for him. He'd trusted in their friendship, their bond. And that had helped him be strong. Then the unbelievable had happened.

Neal could hardly recall the details now—he was pretty sure he'd had a concussion at the time—but he remembered Peter's voice, crystal clear, felt those big hands on his body, FBI ring twinkling in the light. Peter calmly asking Billings for an update on Neal's training and giving the man suggestions to better "reform" him. Telling the bastard to take away his food and make him earn every bite. To play white noise in his ears when he blindfolded him and tied him to the bed so that there was no way he could guess how long he would be there. To remind him every day that his bad decisions were what had killed Kate, that it was all his fault and that if he had just played by the rules, she would still be here today.

All his fault. Pain, pain for everyone, but mostly for him. Lots and lots of pain.

The rush of emotions had overwhelmed him. Betrayal, anger, hurt, guilt, fear. More and more *feelings* that he couldn't contain. And that… that was when Neal Caffrey had first started to slip away, gladly leaving behind his aching shell for the comfort of numb lifelessness.

Now… Now Peter wanted him back in New York. But *why* now? Neal had only spoken to Peter… no, to *Agent Burke*—Peter was *not* his friend anymore—a few times since that terrible night, and the man hadn't had much more to say than 'keep training him.' Then all of a sudden he wanted him transferred to New York? Something was going on, and Neal didn't have a clue what.

"For the love of God, boy, say something! Speak!" Neal snapped out of his confused haze at Billings' sharp words, looking around wide eyed. Speak? Why did they want him to speak? They never wanted him to speak at the office unless it was something about a case.

Kramer gestured at the phone and, when Neal just looked more confused, he lifted up the memo from Peter, waving it around like a message. Wait… did that mean… Oh God. Neal's stomach twisted. Peter was on the phone.

He swallowed hard, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth. "I… I'm here, Peter. Agent Burke." He paused, then added "Sir," just in case Peter didn't think he was being polite enough. The words didn't come out very loudly, but Neal wasn't really used to talking anymore. His friends didn't talk to him much. Quiet, his little friends were so, so quiet, like him. Even at the office he mostly answered in 'yes's and 'no's to, with an occasionally "thank you" thrown in for politeness' sake. It felt… awkward, to be speaking here, in the middle of the office, sunshine streaming through the windows. The conference room where they gathered to work on cases was dark, its windows covered by heavy curtains. Speaking here, in Kramer's office, where he tried to tread the lightest, just seemed… strange.

"Neal. Are you on speakerphone?"

"I'm here with him," Kramer said, taking a sip of his coffee then grimacing a little as he glared at Neal. Apparently, in his distraction, Neal had managed to mess up his coffee. Discipline mark number one for the day. Or at least Neal hoped this was his first for the day. "And his handler is here as well." Once again, making him sound like a dog. His "handler."

"His handler? I thought you were going to be his supervising agent, Phillip." Peter's voice sounded a little puzzled and Neal chewed lightly on his lower lip—one of many nervous habits he'd picked up—wondering why the man sounded so confused. He knew that Billings ran point on his training.

"You know I don't have time to babysit. I put Special Agent Billings on it. A good man. Ex-military. He knows how to keep a criminal in check."

Something else that Peter already knew. Really, what was going on here?

"I spent years studying Caffrey, Kramer. You know that. Why you think that there is *anyone* more qualified than I am to deal with Neal is beyond me."

"Well, since Caffrey has been under Billings' watch we've had an equal percentage of cases solved with *none* of the more… unfortunate incidents. Isn't that right, Caffrey?"

Kramer raised an eyebrow in his direction and Neal just stared at him blankly.

"Answer the damn question, boy," Billings hissed, causing Neal to wince as that big hand dug hard into his shoulder.

"Uh… uh, yeah, that's right. Agent Billings has followed your… suggestions… well. Sir." Neal winced as the last word came out a little sharper than he had meant it to, the bitterness he still felt toward Peter shining through. That wasn't good. The last thing he wanted to do was upset the man right before he was sent to New York.

"But you are completely right about no one knowing Neal Caffrey like you, Peter," Kramer put in, looking aggravated, his words coming out a little too fast. Obviously he was not happy. Neal really hoped it wasn't about the coffee. "You know exactly how his mind works and we are very appreciative of all the… hard work you have put in to helping the FBI rehabilitate Mr. Caffrey. You were totally correct that day when you told me that he just needed a new start. And DC was just the start he needed. Agent Billings and I will be putting him on a plane tomorrow morning. I think the New York office will be very pleased in the steps Mr. Caffrey has made. Over the past few months he has truly come to understand that nothing comes free and that there are consequences for his actions. And once again, I thank you for all your help in his rehabilitation process."

"Phillip, what are you talk—"

"Goodbye, Peter. Say goodbye, Caffrey."

"Bye." This time Neal was almost ready for it and the word actually slipped pretty easily off his tongue. Kramer hit a button on his phone, cutting off anything else Peter might have wanted to say, then turned to Neal, shoving his coffee cup in his general direction. "This is crap. Get me more and do it right this time." He turned his attention to Agent Billings. "And then you take him home. Make sure he's ready to meet Burke." A wicked look came over his face, making Neal shiver. "I'll call our special friends, let them know that the program is ready to commence."


	3. Ch 2: The Wanted Crane

If you would like to read this on Livejournal, you can find it at: pucktheperv+DOT+livejournal+DOT+com+SLASH+tag+SLASH+origamisoul**  
**

**See prologue for warnings and summary.**

o o o

**Author's Notes: ** For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo on LJ**. I'm not real fond of possession, despite being a major Supernatural fan, so I went the mind control route. As always, this story will have a happy ending no matter how angsty it gets!

o o o

**Chapter 2: The Wanted Crane**

"Good news, Neal! We finally got clearance from Kramer to bring you back to New York for a case. They *couldn't* deny me on this one—it practically screams 'Neal Caffrey'. You're gonna love it. It is right up your alley. They even escaped from the damn roof in a hot air balloon! And you thought parachuting was hot stuff! It's amazing!" Okay, that had probably come off as a little overexcited considering that all this meant there was a criminal running around out there that Peter hadn't been able to catch. But it had been eight months since he'd seen Neal Caffrey and, irritating and obnoxious and just plain crazy as he was, Peter had missed him, more than he wanted to admit.

Peter had thought it would be pretty easy, going back to Life Before Neal, but it had been a lot tougher than he could ever have imagined. It shouldn't have been so tough. He still had his amazing wife and his great job and his awesome team, just like before. And he'd been perfectly happy before. He hadn't needed anything else. There hadn't been an empty spot in his life *for* Neal Caffrey to fill.

But conning his way into people's hearts was just what Neal did and, somehow, without Peter even realizing it, he had chipped away at their life, making a place for himself that nobody else could ever fill. It was too creative, too unique. One moment Neal seemed like the son he and El had yet to birth, then the next he was the most cunning and talented partner Peter had ever had. He was a criminal and a case-solver, a smooth playboy and a romantic fool. He was so many things that a thousand people couldn't fill the gap he'd carved into Peter's life.

Not, of course, that Peter would ever admit that to anyone. Except maybe to El. But he didn't have to express it to El. She understood, which was good, because while Peter was smart, he wasn't smooth-talking like Neal. Words tumbled from him that even *he* didn't understand when he spoke about Neal Caffrey, words that made no sense at all. A strange mixture of joy and regret and wonder and sorrow and excitement and fear. Peter had chased Neal for years. It was impossible *not* to have feelings. But stating them… he just couldn't do it. Every time he tried it came out wrong and usually ended with Neal off pouting in a corner, annoyed at being given yet another speech on coming back from the Dark Side. Which frustrated Peter to no end. Why couldn't Neal understand that he only lectured because he didn't want to *lose* him? And why couldn't Peter state that in a way so that Neal would understand that the words weren't meant as a cop to a criminal but as a mentor to a friend?

"Neal?" The line had been silent too long. Peter's mind was moving at light speed—the mere thought of Neal Caffrey back at his side made a thousand things shoot through his head at once that he wanted to say but wasn't poetic enough to express. But still, the phone had been quiet too long.

"Neal, are you there? Did you hear what I said?" Surely Neal would be at least a little excited. Yes, a detective with far lesser abilities than Special Agent Burke could have deduced that Neal was unhappy with him for letting DC take him—not that Peter had any choice—but was he really so upset he wouldn't want to come back?

Peter could understand it, he supposed. Neal wasn't used to having to do things by the letter of the law. He had probably expected a magical out that Peter hadn't been able to provide. Neal had stopped taking calls from any of them—him, El, even Mozzie—months ago, but Peter was sure that, deep down, Neal wanted to come home. Now if he could just convey how happy he was to see him again without losing what little bit of authority he had… "God, Neal, you wouldn't believe how excited El is! She hasn't stopped talking about it for days!"

Actually it was Peter who hadn't stopped talking about it for days, meandering on and on about everything from cases where he'd chased *after* Neal to cases he'd solved *with* Neal to whether or not Neal would like the plan he'd come up with for celebrating his anniversary with El this year. The last one had earned him a weird look from Jones, who obviously wondered why the hell Peter would care what Neal thought about his anniversary plans, but Diana had given him a knowing smile. She knew what it was like with the ladies. Neal Caffrey was one step away from 'Queer Eye For the Straight Guy' when it came to teaching good old boys like Peter how to woo a woman. The one step being the whole 'not actually gay' thing. He was a good go-to guy for anything, really. Setting up fabulous dates was just the tip of the iceberg.

The line was still silent. Peter frowned deeply and glanced at his cellphone, wondering if they'd been cut off. No, the seconds were still ticking away on the little screen. "Neal, are you there? Can you hear me? Neal?"

"For the love of God, boy, say something! Speak!"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion at the harsh voice that was definitely not Neal Caffrey. The receptionist had said she'd connect him. Had she dialed the wrong extension? Was he on speakerphone?

"I'm here, Agent Burke." The voice was barely recognizable, flat and hoarse and hardly above a whisper. It was about as far from the cocky, confidant charm of Neal as it could be and still be, well, Neal's voice. "Sir."

The last word, at least, had some feeling, but not anything Peter would have expected. It sounded hard, with a bitter tang to it. And he couldn't even remember the last time Neal had called him 'Sir,' except with a know-it-all smirk and laughter in his eyes as he mimicked the way the probies would dash around from coffee pot to coffee pot trying desperately to pick the best brew and get themselves on Peter's good side.

"Neal. Are you on speakerphone?"

"I'm here with him," came a voice Peter knew well. "And his handler is here as well."

Peter frowned. "His handler? I thought you were going to be his supervising agent, Phillip."

He could practically see the man waving the comment away. "You know I don't have time to babysit. I put Special Agent Billings on it. A good man. Ex-military. He knows how to keep a criminal in check."

Peter choked back a sharp retort at the obvious implication that he, unlike this Agent Billings, didn't know how to handle Neal Caffrey. No need to get on Kramer's bad side when Neal's future depended upon the man. "I spent years studying Caffrey, Kramer. You know that. Why you think there is *anyone* more qualified than I am to deal with Neal is beyond me."

"Well, since Caffrey has been under Billings' watch we've had an equal percentage of cases solved with *none* of the more… unfortunate incidents. Isn't that right, Caffrey?"

There was a long silence followed by some harsh whispers that Peter couldn't quite discern, then Neal spoke, his voice still dull and low.

"Yeah. That's right. Agent Billings has followed your… suggestions… well. Sir." Again the word had a sharp edge to it. Peter shook his head, confused. His suggestions? What was Neal talking about?

Before he could question it, Kramer spoke up, his words coming a little too fast. "But you are completely right about no one knowing Neal Caffrey like you, Peter. You know exactly how his mind works and we are very appreciative of all the… hard work you have put into helping the FBI rehabilitate Mr. Caffrey. You were totally correct that day when you told me that he just needed a new start. And DC was just the start he needed. Agent Billings and I will be putting him on a plane tomorrow morning. I think the New York office will be very pleased in the steps Mr. Caffrey has made. Over the past few months he has truly come to understand that nothing comes free and that there are consequences for his actions. And once again, I thank you for all your help in his rehabilitation process."

Peter frowned again. "Phillip, what are you talk—"

"Goodbye, Peter. Say goodbye, Caffrey."

"Bye."

There was a click and Peter was left staring down at his phone, a sense of unease growing in his mind, but he quickly pushed it away. Once Neal was back in New York, he'd get back in the groove and everything would be fine. Peter reached down, snagging the little origami creature sitting on his desk next to his picture of El. It was a crane, made of of Neal's own goddamn Wanted poster, the snarky bastard. He'd dropped it the day the Marshals had taken him down. A picture of Neal might have raised questions, but this was enough of a reminder for Peter. Everything *was* going to be okay, Peter knew it would, because he wasn't going to have it any other way.

o o o

"Honey, you're driving Satchmo crazy just standing there like that. He thinks you've died!"

El's voice jolted Peter out of his thoughts and he started, almost knocking over a bowl full of fruit on the countertop he'd been leaning against. "Hm? Oh, sorry, hon." He leaned forward, giving her a little peck on the lips as she passed. It was all he dared to do considering that she was covered in flour and frosting.

"What's with you today? You've been down since you got home? Shouldn't you be more excited? We're going to see Neal!"

Peter forced a grin. "I know, I know… I'm just worried. I don't know why, it's just a gut feeling… I should forget it."

El turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Now, Agent Burke, I have never known you to ignore your gut, whether it's saying that it's time for deviled ham or that the bad guy's hiding in the library with the candlestick! You really think something's wrong?"

Peter let out a deep sigh. "I just don't know, El. You should have heard him on this phone call! I mean, he barely spoke at all, which is completely at odds with the Neal we know…" El nodded her agreement. "And he just seemed… almost angry at me? No, not angry. Bitter? That's not right, either, dammit. I dunno, El. He has to know that I've been doing everything I can to get him back! I've called in every favor, I've made a thousand requests for his assistance—even on cases that a probie could do with their eyes closed! I start off every week with a new appeal to the DC office for his transfer back to New York. He's seen the paperwork. I know it because he's actually signed off on the fact that he's 'urgently needed' in DC. And how many times have we tried to call him? I can't help it if he won't pick up his damn phone!" Peter slapped a hand down on the counter hard enough to make Satchmo whimper and curl his tail underneath him. "I just don't get it, El! What right does he have to be angry? He's the one who cut us off."

El made a soothing noise—though whether it was meant for Satchmo's sake or his, Peter wasn't sure—then moved around the counter to wrap her arms around his neck, sprinkling a dust of flour across his suit jacket as she did so, not that he really cared. He was glad to have her arms around him.

Peter took a deep breath as she rested her head against his chest. He loved her so, so much. He was such a lucky man. So much luckier than Neal, with his star-crossed romances and his rootless life and the high school diploma he'd never actually gotten. Peter was a strong believer in the fact that men made their own choices and, if they did wrong, they should be punished for their actions. But that didn't mean he couldn't empathize occasionally. Especially when it came to Neal.

"It's going to be okay, Peter. We'll get him back. We will. I don't know what's happened since the day Kramer arrested him, I don't know why he hasn't been willing to talk to us or see us. But he'll be here today and we'll have all those answers. And then we'll start working on a way to get him back forever, okay? One step at a time, hon."

Peter ran his fingers lightly through her hair, letting out a soft sigh. She was right, of course. One step at a time. "I guess I had better get the car started, then."

El smiled up at him, that bright grin instantly lifting some of the grey clouds from his shoulders. "You do that and I'll finish up his welcome home cake." She raised up on her tippy toes, planting a light kiss on his lips. "I love you, honey."

o o o

Peter paced back and forth in front of the gate with his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched. The nervous energy was so thick that you could probably butter bread with it and, considering that his jacket was pulled back just enough to give every passer-byer a good look at his gun, he should really cowboy up and sit the fuck down. Unfortunately for the obviously distressed frequent fliers milling about, Peter was way too worked up to sit.

"Geeze, boss, you're going to wear a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that."

Peter glanced over, glad that he'd decided to bring Diana with him instead of Jones. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jones implicitly, it was just that he knew he could rely on Diana to keep her mouth shut when Peter made a total fool of himself seeing Neal for the first time in what seemed like forever. Okay, maybe she wouldn't keep her mouth shut *while* he was making a fool of himself, but at least she wouldn't spread the tale of their reunion across the entire office.

"I know, I know… I'm just kind of nervous about seeing Neal, if that makes any sense." He came to a halt in front of the chair Diana was seated in, tugging anxiously at his shirt cuffs. "Which sounds nuts. But it's been so long since I've spoken to him. He's not even taking *El's* calls. And when I did get a chance to say three words to him yesterday… I think he's mad at me, Diana." He sighed loudly. "And the thing is? I figure he has a right to be."

Diana shook her head. "Peter, that's not true. Neal was the one who chose to break the law, okay? You did everything you could to persuade him not to. He landed himself with Kramer in DC—and he's lucky it's not prison. You've done everything you could to get him back. Maybe you haven't succeeded, but you've done the best you can, and that's something. He has no right to be angry at you. If he's angry at anyone then it should be at himself. You have tried to help him at every turn. He's the only one responsible for his situation." A tiny smile. "But, hey, let him act like a teenager. Compared to our old souls, he is one."

Peter sighed, collapsing down in the chair next to Diana. "I know, I know. But Kramer was right… Neal's become way more than just a CI to me. Not having him here is tough, but knowing there's a chance that he doesn't even want to come back is even worse."

"Well, obviously he does want to come back since he accepted this case."

"Or Phillip is making him come here to show off his amazing abilities at taming criminals compared to sad Peter Burke. You know, since apparently this 'Agent Billings'," Peter made quotation marks in the air, scowling, "has turned him into a perfect angel. Totally cooperative, no funny business allowed."

"I have a hard time hearing 'Neal Caffrey' and 'no funny business' in the same sentence," Diana said dryly.

Peter shook his head. "Well, apparently he is now a model citizen. Bring out the prize!"

Diana smirked. "Hey, don't be too hard on yourself. He's probably scamming them all."

The light over the gate began to flash and Peter sat up, scanning the sudden rush of people exiting for Neal's slim form. Person after person poured out, from dads hauling toddlers behind them to businesswomen checking their smartphones to Japanese tourists looking around excitedly. But no Neal.

As more and more of the crowd dissipated, the first hints of worry began to flutter around his stomach. Goddamn it, if Neal had escaped again, he was *never* going to live this down! He should have known something was up when he heard what a good little boy Caffrey was being.

"There he is." Diana stood abruptly, pointing toward the gat.

Peter stood as well, frowning deeply at the last few people trickling out. There was a chubby woman stuffing the last of her peanuts in her mouth; a pale, slumping man with a bad buzz cut; and a couple of college kids playing some sort of little handheld video game thing as they walked. But definitely no Neal Caffrey. "I don't see him."

Diane raised an eyebrow at him, looking slightly amused. "He's right there, boss. Don't tell me you don't recognize that skinny butt. And don't give me the old 'I don't look at men that way' BS. I don't look at men that way, either."

Peter chuckled. "Very funny. I still don't—"

The pale, slumping man chose that moment to turn around and Peter literally choked on his words, letting out a loud cough. What the hell? Had he fallen into some weird sci fi flick? Or that movie where Nicholas Cage and John Travolta trade faces? Face/Off, was it? Because that pale, slumping man was wearing Neal's face.

"Oh my God," Peter said, eyes widening as he took in the man before him. No wonder he hadn't recognized Caffrey's "skinny butt." The pants he was wearing were at least two sizes too big, held up by a tightly buckled belt. In place of his carefully fitted designer suits he was wearing an oversized forest green sports coat, a worn out button up, and a tie printed with… dear God, was that Oscar the Grouch? Okay, this *had* to be some kind of sci fi flick, because Neal Caffrey wearing a tie with a *trash can* on it was something from another universe. And God, what had happened to his *hair*? "How… What…?" He shook his head, wondering if someone had slipped something in his coffee this morning.

"Diane," he said, trying to sound calm. "Is Neal Caffrey standing over there dressed like a sixty year old man with grandkids?"

She gave a sharp nod. "He sure is, boss." She smirked, but there was a hint of worry in her eyes.

Okay, so Peter was *not* hallucinating. Dear Lord, had someone actually done it? Had someone *actually* managed to bring Neal Caffrey down to the rest of the world's level? Hell, if Agent Billings had managed to drag their diva off of his pedestal, maybe the man really did deserve some credit. God knows Peter had never been able to manage it. But how the hell had he done it?

Not sure if he should be worried or amused, Peter a step forward, raising a hand as he called out to the other man. "Hey, Neal!"

Neal actually jumped at the sound of Peter's voice, looking from side to side like some wild animal before his eyes caught Peter's, then he froze. "Deer in the headlights" would be a good description if they were sticking to the animal metaphors, but now that Peter could see him more clearly, he could definitely say that Neal didn't look half as pretty as a doe. In fact, he looked terrible.

Sometime along the way Neal had apparently decided that military crew cut was the new Prada, because his hair was gone in rough patches, very short in places and slightly longer in others, like someone had cut it in the dark. Maybe Peter could write off the lousy wardrobe as DC managing to keep the man on a commoner's budget, but this haircut… Something was wrong with that. There was no *way* Neal would want that 'do.

Peter's gut immediately sprung into action, his "Spidey sense," as his six year old nephew had called it, tingling. The last time Neal Caffrey had let himself go this much, he'd waltzed out of a maximum security prison like he was leaving the opera. This change… it meant something. Peter wasn't sure *what* it meant yet, but he sensed it wasn't anything good.

And if the idea that the unpredictable ex-con might be brewing up some trouble kind of gave Peter a rush, well, it was only because he needed some brushing up on his much touted "catching Caffrey" skill set. Not because he *enjoyed* it when Neal bent the rules and Peter ended up undercover, sneaking out of a locked trunk into a house to steal incriminating evidence. That would be very un-agent like of him, after all.

Peter shoved those thoughts away. No, no, no. He needed to remember that his number one goal was getting Neal back to New York for the rest of the man's now extended sentence of six years. And that meant none of that funny business he was known for—especially any funny business that would require Neal to shave off his hair and lower himself to wearing shirts without cufflinks.

But questions about *that* could come later. As long as Neal didn't try to parachute himself onto a movie plane and take off for China in the next five minutes, Peter was just happy to see him.

He grinned widely as he moved toward him, setting a hand down on the smaller man's shoulder. Neal stiffened, eyeing Peter's hand like it was about to attack him. Peter rolled his eyes, letting his hand fall. Trust Neal to fear mustard fingerprints on his clothing, even if said clothing looked like it came from the Goodwill reject pile.

"Neal, buddy, how are you doing?" He raised an eyebrow, giving Neal his patented 'I know you're up to something look.' "Nice trim by the way. That is quite the style."

Bingo. Neal's cheeks immediately turned a flaming red color and he dropped his eyes off to the side. Yup. Something was definitely going on with that haircut, though Peter couldn't begin to imagine any kind of con where you would need to butcher your hair like that. Of course he hadn't been able to imagine any kind of con that would involve carrier pigeons, either, until he'd met Caffrey.

"Thank you, Sir. I'm glad… glad that you like it. Agent Burke. Peter. Sir." Neal's voice was tight, his gaze still firmly locked to the side and his face still burning.

Peter took a step forward, frowning deeply as Neal mirrored him, stepping back. What the hell was going on with all these 'sirs'? What was he trying to pull? It was possible that whatever Neal had up his sleeve was already in motion. Had he shaved his head and switched his clothes on the flight? Surely Kramer would have mentioned a change this drastic to Peter before sticking Neal on a plane—this new look was obviously very suspicious. Peter really wasn't sure what to think.

"Caffrey, please tell me you don't have some sort of con going already. You haven't even been off the plane five minutes yet!"

Neal made a choking sound and raised a hand to his collar, tugging at it in a nervous way that just looked really… off. The man wore collared *pajamas.* He was not a tug-at-the-collar sort of guy. "No, sir. No, God no. Nothing's going on, I promise." His other hand came up and he began to loosen his tie then paused, frowned, and tightened it again.

Peter exchanged a glance with Diana who just shrugged, obviously as befuddled by the situation as he was.

"Okay, then," Peter said, less than convinced that nothing was going on. He would have to keep an eye out for Mozzie. "I guess we'll go get your luggage and get out of here."

Neal just shook his head sharply and bent down to grab the small duffel bag sitting at his feet, holding it up silently for their inspection. After a few moments of awkward staring—well, Peter was staring, Neal's eyes had found their way the floor and seemed intent on staying there—Diane spoke, her words slow, like she was trying to puzzle something out. And you had to admit, the idea of Neal Caffrey with no luggage was kind of a puzzle.

"Okay, you have your carry on. You don't have any other luggage?"

Neal shook his head and Peter frowned again—there had been a lot more frowning at this little reunion than he had expected. Just what the hell was Neal playing here? "Did you have it overnighted?"

Again, just s shake of the head. Peter let out an irritated sigh. "Dammit, Caffrey, this isn't twenty questions. Just speak!"

Neal's head jerked up at the words, his eyes wide. Combined with the terrible haircut and the cheap, ugly clothes he just looked kind of, well, pitiful. "This… This is all I have."

That was all he had? There was no way that Neal could fit even one of his posh suits in that thing, short of crushing it into a ball. And Peter was pretty sure he wouldn't do that to a Doovwa or Dowar or whatever that suit he loved so much was called. Neal would probably consider it a crime up there with drowning a puppy and wearing white shoes after Labor Day. There was definitely, absolutely, 100% something going on. And if Neal wasn't willing to talk about it here, well, Peter would find a way to pry it out of him. He was an investigator. Prying things out of people was what he did. And in the mean time, he'd play it cool. Smooth. Like Neal used to do.

"Well, okay, then. Let's get out of here."

o o o

Neal chewed nervously at his thumbnail as he felt the plane touch down, not that there was much left to chew. His nails were so chewed down that they were hardly there at all. Just another nervous habit. He'd never had any nervous habits before, and now it seemed like he had every one imaginable. But hey, he spent a lot of time being nervous. Nervous habits gave him something to *do* with that time other than melt into the floor in a pitiful heap. Because that's what he was. Absolutely fucking pitiful.

Look at him. The flight was over, he was here in New York, and he had absolutely no idea what to do. With no Billings or Kramer or even an unnamed agent to tell him what to do, he might as well have been chained to his seat. Should he get up, exit the plane, try to find Peter? Should he wait here until Peter came to find him? What would make the best impression? He just didn't know.

It had been so long since Neal had made any decision for himself, he wasn't even sure he remembered how. Thankfully, after a few awkward minutes of sitting frozen in the now almost empty plane, he was saved from having to try by an annoyed looking flight attendant. The look she gave him was one of pure disgust, which wasn't really a surprise since he looked like a pauper. Or a crack addict with a fetish for Sesame Street, if you wanted to be less poetic about it.

"Time to exit the plane, *sir*." The last word was said a little mockingly and Neal dropped his eyes in embarrassment, turning his face away.

He avoided her eyes as he stood and carefully pulled his bag out of the storage compartment. It contained everything Billings had decided he needed for a stay of unknown length: a toothbrush (apparently he felt that Neal could find toothpaste on his own, or maybe just use the hand soap), three button up shirts in varying shades of awful, three pairs of cheap polyester pants, shoelaces in case the ones on his worn out sneakers broke, a safety razor (sadly Neal had yet to figure out how to kill himself with a safety razor), two ties even more embarrassing than the one he was wearing, and five pairs of socks. It seemed that the DC agents didn't feel it was worth wasting the money to buy him underwear, so he was going commando all the time. Or, more likely, it was less a money issue and more the fact that Billings tended to rip them up when yanking Neal's pants down from awkward angles.

Neal shuffled out of the plane, trying his best to ignore the looks the flight attendant was shooting him. There had been a time when women like that had flocked to him. A time when a single smile could make every person within a 50 yard radius want to be his best friend. And now… it was all gone. And it wasn't just the hair and the clothes. That part of himself was gone and he wasn't sure he would ever get it back, even if he did manage to physically survive the next five years and ninety-two days.

The terminal was as crowded as could be expected for an airport in the heart of New York—which meant very crowded—and Neal stopped just outside the gate, dropping his duffle bag to the ground. He couldn't wait in the plane for Peter to retrieve him, but he could wait as close to the gate as security would let him. Better to make airport staff wonder if he might have some terrorist connections by refusing to leave the boarding area than to leave and have Peter think he'd been trying to run off. Airport security could only strip you naked and hold you for 72 hours. Peter could do whatever the hell he wanted. They did in DC, after all.

Neal didn't bother watching the crowd. Peter would come get him or Neal would sit his ass down and sleep in the middle of the terminal. The last time he'd wandered away, Billings had taken it upon himself to beat the shit out of Neal with an extension cord. And he'd only "wandered" over to the trash can across the street to throw away the empty coffee cup Billings had handed him before he'd disappeared into a strip joint on his lunch break. It had just been bad luck that Neal had decided to help out the environment right as Meathead McAsshole ran out of ones.

Neal did glance around a couple times, however, unable to resist a long look out the window at the sprawl of Manhatten. New York City. The memories were like a sweet dream. A long lost dream that he could barely remember because he had spent so much time caught up in this new nightmare he called his life.

"Hey, Neal!"

Neal jumped at the sudden shout, looking around a little frantically. God, he was on the edge. He needed to calm down. It was only Peter. Who else would be shouting his name across the airport? He just needed to take a deep breath and find him…

There. Off to the right, standing next to Diana in front of a line of the cheap plastic chairs airports used to subtly torture passengers who refused to fly First Class. Special Agent Peter Burke.

Neal had thought he was prepared for this. Hell, he'd spent the entire flight here coming up with scenarios of what this would be like. He'd mapped out a thousand different conversation, calculated every move that Peter could possibly make and come up with the best way to present himself, a way that make him seem so amazingly reformed that Peter decide to do away with the discipline mark system entirely. A way that made him look so humble and loyal and adoring that Peter would decide that Neal was wasted on DC and that he should come back and stay in New York for the rest of his sentence, far, far away from Agent Billings' dirty mouth and grabby hands.

Hey, a man could dream, right?

Unfortunately Neal's grand plans to awe his new trainer with his child-like obedience and utter submission was foiled when an unexpected rush of feelings surged through him. He couldn't even open his mouth to spout off his much practiced, "Agent Burke, Peter, it is so good to be at your service again." His chest was too tight, the emotions too strong.

Neal had a sudden urge to just run to Peter, fling his arms around him, and sob into his chest like a little boy. Because that, of course, would be a *wonderful* first impression. *Everyone* wanted to work with a pitiful heap.

But he couldn't help it. Somewhere along the way the idea of Peter as his protector had apparently worked its way into the hardwiring Neal's brain. Maybe because Peter really *had* always been his protector, to some degree. He had taken Caffrey's case in its early stages, but he'd never used under the table tricks to find him. No fake hits put out on his name. No trying to flush him out by mentioning to the fouler criminal elements that he *might* have been involved in the theft of their money or drugs or whatever. No "accidental" shots to the leg when he was running full out down an empty boulevard to escape the Feds.

Even in prison, Peter had protected him. Federal lockup was full of the worst kind of criminals. The sort that wouldn't think twice about taking the skinny, artsy kid—because, at 26, he was nothing more than a kid to these guys—and using him for whatever fucked up purpose they pleased. But Peter had made sure that Neal had his own cell, placed far away from the most violent offenders, and that the guards had kept a very, *very* close eye on him. He hadn't even realized at first that it was Peter. He thought he'd just been lucky. But about six months in he'd spotted Agent Burke in one of the offices and decided to put his top criminal skills to good use and listen in on the conversation. If you could call holding a glass to a door a top criminal skill.

It was then that he discovered that the man actually checked in on him every week and that he'd made it very clear that if Neal showed up in the infirmary for anything more than a skinned knee he'd gotten "dancing ballet or painting with his feet or jumping off buildings or whatever Caffrey is into now," the prison would be facing a *very* serious investigation led by a *very* serious federal officer. It had actually made Neal blush. Though he wasn't sure if Peter thinking he danced ballet was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. He was very graceful, after all.

Even when Neal escaped prison… once he'd gotten to the empty apartment and seen that lonely bottle sitting in the middle of the room, he hadn't bothered to try and get away. He'd known that Peter would come for him there, and it was better than being taken down two states away by a US Marshal with an itchy trigger finger. Peter would take care of him.

And he had, more than Neal had even imagined. Even when Neal hit him with half-truths and betrayals at every turn, Peter had still been there for him. He'd always had his back, in his own lawful way.

Neal still wasn't sure what had caused the man to give up on him, but he knew that his instinct to run and hide behind his "special Special Agent" was pure foolishness. No one would be overlooking anything anymore—that was the point of his training. And if something did go wrong, he would have to prove his own innocence because people like him just weren't worth wasting your time defending.

Neal took a deep steadying breath as Peter moved toward him, hoping like hell that he hadn't done anything wrong by getting off the plane. Forget his elaborate plans to impress, now he was just hoping he hadn't already fucked up. Ms. Scowly Face flight attendant had made him get off. That was *not* his fault. Not that it mattered to these guys. But Peter really didn't look pleased. He look kind of… Neal just didn't know. Shocked, maybe? Was he really shocked that Neal would get off the plane without orders? If just that was enough to upset him then Neal might have to rework his plans so that the goal would be *returning* to DC, not escaping it.

Neal managed to keep a calm facade going until Peter's big hand came down on his shoulder, then the panic took over. So big and strong. It felt like Billings' hand. *Just* like Billings' hand. And there were few things he hated more than the feeling of Billings' hands on him. Surely Peter wouldn't discipline him here. And he *definitely* wouldn't fuck him here. So if not to hurt him or to fuck him, why the hell was he touching him?!

Neal's mind was racing so fast trying to come up with possible answers to the question that he almost missed the way Peter rolled his eyes as pulled his hand away, like Neal flinching away from him was just silliness. And, since the touch had apparently been completely innocent, Neal guessed it was. But Neal was used to Billings' hands, and fearing those fingers was not silliness, it was smarts.

But with Peter, the touch had been… Friendly. Familial, even. That's right… Peter… he used to touch Neal all the time. Not in any weird way, but to shake his hand or pat his back or even pull him into the occasional hug. The touch meant nothing. Maybe… maybe he had even meant it kindly. Maybe… maybe this really wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Neal should go ahead with his plans to try and win Peter over. It had been ten whole minutes and the other man hadn't hurt him yet. That was more than Neal could say for the first time he'd met Agent Billings.

"Neal, buddy, how are you doing?" Peter raised an eyebrow, shooting Neal a knowing look that made him want to squirm. "Nice trim by the way." He made a soft noise of disbelief. "That is *quite* the style."

Okay, take back the thing about ten minutes with no pain. Neal's already red face began to really burn and he had to casually reach up and pretend to rub his eye to keep a tear from running down his cheek. That… that had hurt. A punch to the face would ache for days, but this casual comment on Neal's total loss of power hit him where it mattered.

Kramer had been right—Peter did know him better than any other agent. Even Billings had to be a little more explicit than that to make Neal feel like he'd been stabbed in the heart. But all it took Peter was five simple words, five words that nobody else would recognize for the knife they were. Because the way Billings had thoughtlessly chopped off Neal's hair without even bothering to tell him what was going to happen was just a physical metaphor for what they'd done to him as a person. It was the antithesis of Neal Caffrey, something he would have never done to himself. It had left him feeling vulnerable and scared knowing that, whatever they wanted to do, whenever they wanted to do it, they could. Like he was less than human. No need ask him first—it wasn't his decision to make.

But he couldn't just let the comment sit, no matter how much it had hurt. He had to respond or Peter might think he was being rude. Neal was undecided yet on whether he'd be striving to do his very best on this case so that Peter would want to keep him or so that he could get back his more familiar hell in DC. But, either way, he didn't want to be on the bad side of the man who essentially owned him.

He took as deep a breath as a man choking on embarrassment could handle and managed to mumble, "Thank you, Sir. I'm glad… glad that you like it. Agent Burke. Sir." He couldn't bring himself to call the man 'Peter,' even though he'd been instructed to do so in order to keep questions down in the office. They were very obviously *not* friends anymore and Neal wanted what distance he could get. If New York really was going to be just like DC… He could handle being used by the man called "Agent Burke." "Agent Burke" could not destroy him. Not anymore than Billings already had, anyway. He was like a diamond. Hammer at it and its beauty would chip away, but the rock would still be there, cracked but not broken. But the man he knew as Peter… With Peter he was like glass. One careless movement and he could shatter him, and Neal was pretty sure he'd never be able to put those pieces together again.

Peter took a step forward and Neal winced as he stepped back without thinking, automatically trying to keep the space between them. A look Neal couldn't quite define crossed Peter's face then he spoke, his voice exasperated. "Caffrey, please tell me you don't have some sort of con going already. You haven't even been off the plane ten minutes yet!"

Neal's mouth actually dropped open at the accusation, his eyes going wide. This was way, way worse than he had expected. He'd gone through a lot of scenarios in his head on the plane and had made very careful plans so as *not* to make Peter think he was doing something he shouldn't be. Now, ten minutes off the plane and Peter thought he was running a con?! What had he done? What had he *missed*? He had been careful to keep his hands still at his side—there was no way he could be giving signals. Maybe he should have put them behind his back. More submissive *and* less likely to be the cause of… of whatever Peter thought he was up to. It couldn't have been anything Neal said—all he'd done was agree with whatever Peter said. It was incomprehensible.

Neal had half a mind to get down on his knees and beg forgiveness, but he doubted that would particularly please Peter, nor would it really paint Neal in a good light. Who wanted to work with someone who broke down every time you raised your voice? Other than Agent Billings, but that was different. Neal never worked in the field on DC cases. He just sat silently in their dark conference room, politely answering questions when the Harvards and the Yales were all stumped then letting them take all the credit when Kramer came around.

"No, no, sir," Neal managed to stutter out. God, he felt like he was choking. He reached up automatically, trying to pull his collar loose. Not that it would help much considering that he had a big hunk of metal locked around his neck beneath it. "No, sir. No, God no. Nothing's going on, I promise." What to say to convince him? Neal just didn't know.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Neal started to loosen the hideous tie he was wearing, caught himself, and quickly tugged it tight again before anybody actually got a *glimpse* of the horrible collar he was wearing underneath it. Neal was pretty sure that was one of the reasons Billings had caved and bought Neal some collared shirts for this trip. As if him wearing t-shirts under a sports coat wouldn't have been suspicious enough, Neal seriously doubted anyone would believe that he had suddenly decided to start wearing nouveau jewelry with a Gothic theme. Especially since said jewelry could not be removed without the assistance of an electric saw.

Finally, after exchanging a couple of disbelieving stares with Diana, Peter spoke. "Okay, then… I guess we'll go get your luggage and get out of here."

His luggage? He had his luggage right here… Neal lifted it up pointedly.

Did Peter actually think Billings had let him check any bags? Hell, Neal didn't have enough stuff in his "room"—which he shared with Billings' front load washer and dryer—to fill half of your average suitcase. Besides his basic wardrobe he had a sleeping bag on the floor, an old pillow, a flashlight, and a bag of peanuts in case Billings forgot to feed him and he started getting dizzy. The only thing he had that was actually *his* he'd had to leave in DC, because Billings would probably beat the living shit out of him if he knew that Neal had anything he could possibly find comforting in his home.

Behind the washer was a loose board in the wall that Neal had managed to pry off early in his stay. You could say that inside it were his only friends, if you didn't mind sounding like a five year old girl in serious need of some Prozac. There was a little pink crane made out of an old 'While You Were Out' message, an eggshell colored elephant from a memo that Kramer had told him to throw away, a bright green alligator made of a piece of torn construction paper the little girl next door had given him one day. A fox and a dolphin, a giraffe and a bear. There was even a peacock made out of three one dollar bills he'd found in Billings' pockets when he was doing his laundry—God help him if the bastard ever found out about *that* one. Everyone of them was something beautiful formed out of trash. If he had wanted to wax poetic, Neal supposed he could claim that they were a metaphor for the hope that someday something wonderful would form out of the scrap of a human being he had become. But if he was honest, they were really just what kept him from going completely insane. The one thing he still had that reminded him of the Neal Caffrey he had once been.

"Okay, you have your carry on…" Peter was frowning at him. "You don't have any other luggage?"

Neal shook his head, his heart skipping a beat when Peter's frown just deepened. Was that the wrong answer?

"Did you have it overnighted?"

Neal shook his head again, not sure what else to do. Apparently this was not what Peter wanted, because he snapped, "Dammit, Caffrey, this isn't twenty questions. Just speak!"

The tone was harsh enough to make Neal wince. Apparently Peter expected a lot more talking out of him than Billings and Kramer did. Which was understandable, he guessed. The Neal Caffrey Peter had known had definitely been more chatty. Kramer had claimed that Neal's voice made him want to stab his eardrums out, but he was pretty sure that Peter had kind of liked it. They'd sure talked a lot, anyway. "This… This is all I have."

Peter stared hard at him and Neal resisted the urge to fidget. Whatever the other man was looking for, Neal guessed didn't find, because he just let out a tired sigh and turned, waving for Neal to follow him. "Well, okay, then. Let's get out of here."

Neal took a deep breath. It would all be okay. It had to be okay, because he wasn't sure how much more he could take.


	4. Ch 3: A Little Bird Told Me

If you would like to read this on Livejournal, you can find it at: pucktheperv+DOT+livejournal+DOT+com+SLASH+tag+SLASH+origamisoul**  
**

**See prologue for warnings and summary.**

o o o

**Author's Notes: ** For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo on LJ**. I am aware that this chapter is a little... weird. And very late. Sorry bout that. Hopefully you guys like it okay.

o o o

**Chapter 3: A Little Bird Told Me  
**

"Welcome home!"

Neal jerked back as El actually jumped out from behind the couch, waving her arms around in the air. Satchmo followed, though he chose to leap *over* the couch and bound straight toward Neal, his wet doggy nose pressing against Neal's hand.

Neal blinked rapidly as he glanced around the Burkes' living room, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Was there really a 'WELCOME BACK NEAL!' banner hanging from the ceiling? And *streamers*?

El's arms were around his neck before Neal knew it, squeezing tight, and he forced himself not to flinch away. El wouldn't hurt him, that was one thing he was sure of, even if everything else in his life was confusing as hell. Carefully Neal returned the hug, glancing nervously over at Peter, hoping it was okay. The man didn't look displeased, in fact, he looked pretty happy, so Neal gave himself to it, holding El tight.

Oh God, it felt good to just touch someone, to feel flesh and blood without fear. Neal had to close his eyes for a moment to keep tears from rising. He wouldn't want Peter to think he was anything less than thrilled to be here, and he sure as hell didn't want to clue El in on what was going on behind the scenes.

After a moment she released him and he let her go regretfully. "Thanks, Elizabeth," he said quietly as they pulled apart. He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, a warm feeling growing inside of him. He hadn't felt this way since the day he'd been shipped off to DC. It was beautiful, and humbling. He hadn't realized how much he had missed kind touches.

"So, you get that cake done?" Peter's voice was jovial, but it still made Neal hunch his shoulders and stare down at the floor.

"Oh yes," El said, grinning widely. "It's in the kitchen. Come on, Neal, I made your favorite!"

Neal shot another look at Peter as Elizabeth gesture for him to follow her into the kitchen. Cake? He was getting cake? He hadn't done anything to deserve cake. Hell, Neal was pretty sure that there was nothing he *could* do to earn something as exotic as cake under Kramer's twisted training system.

"I can have cake?" Neal questioned cautiously, voice quiet so El couldn't hear. Peter shot him a strange look.

"Um, yeah, it's for you," Peter replied with a half grin.

For him? Why would Peter have cake for him?

"El spent all day making it, so you better tell her you love it."

Ah, that made sense. Peter didn't have cake for him, Elizabeth did. And since the first rule of training was that you don't talk about training, he couldn't tell her not to make cake for Neal, not if he wanted to keep her in the dark.

"Come on, I'm starving," Peter said lightly, heading off toward the kitchen.

Neal followed behind silently, breath catching at the smell of freshly baked cocoa as he stepped into the room. On the table in the center was a large cake with the words 'Missed You Lots!' painted across it in purple and green icing with big yellow polka dots all around it.

"It's great," Neal said, giving El a small, tight smile. "Thank you, El."

El's big smile faltered a little and Neal's stomach turned. Had he offended her? Surely he couldn't have offended her. Maybe he hadn't been excited enough? Maybe he should have said more? Or less? It had been so long since Neal had a real conversation with anyone that even basic chatter was difficult for him.

"Neal… Not to sound rude, but what are you wearing, sweetie?" She stepped forward, reaching out to run her hand through his short cropped hair. "And what happened to your hair?"

Neal blushed deeply and glanced over at Peter, searching for some sign of what the man wanted him to say. It was like that first night with Billings all over again, out in public in his bedraggled state, humiliation overshadowing everything.

"I-I decided to make a change," Neal said, forcing a shaky smile on his face. He could practically feel Peter's eyes boring into him. "Easier to take care of." He glanced down at his hideous clothes. "The DC branch is a little more thrifty than the New York office."

"Obviously," El said, raising an eyebrow. "June kept your suits at her house if you want to pick them up tomorrow."

Neal's shoulders tightened at the words. This was definitely Not Good. There was no way Peter would want him dressing up like that, but he couldn't say that to El. How would he explain it when he showed up tomorrow wearing the electric orange tie with a screwdriver and the words 'Adams' Electric Co' on it?

"Aw, I kind of like the new look," Peter said, clapping a hand down on Neal's shoulders. His big, strong hand felt *exactly* like Billings' and Neal lost his appetite completely, baked chocolate wonder be damned. Peter's voice was teasing, but Neal heard it for the warning it was.

"I don't really care," he said as casually as he could manage. He licked his lips, trying to figure out some way to change the subject. His eyes fell on one of the bright party napkins sitting on the table. He grabbed a pink one and quickly began to fold. The movements were familiar, comforting, and, within a few seconds, the napkin had been transformed into one of his favorite little friends: Finny the flamingo.

Neal presented it to El with a small flourish, summoning up the remnants of his previous self to flash her the best smile he good. He was pretty sure that it fell flat, at least compared to the killer grin he used to sport, but she brightened up, giving him a small hug as she took Finny from him. It was a nice change from the way Billings would rip Neal's best offerings between his hands, crumple them in his dangerous fists, and fling them in his trashcan to die a sad little death.

"Why thank you, Neal," El said with a small giggle as she placed Finny Flamingo on top of the microwave. "You are quite talented at that."

"Please tell me that Alex isn't back," Peter said, voice sounding pained. Neal's attention jerked back to the other man, a sick feeling rising in his gut.

"No, Agent Burke, Peter," Neal said, a little too quickly. He needed to slow down. Fast talking was suspicious, and being suspicious got you discipline marks. By Neal's calculations, he was already at least three discipline marks in—the first for getting off the airplane without permission, the second for making Peter think he was pulling a con, the third for accidentally setting off a recitation of Biblical verses about asking forgiveness when he'd bumped a random button in the Taurus and then said 'sorry.' Damn that fucking car and its endless number of useless amenities. It had taken Peter ten minutes and at least forty versus to figure out how to turn it off. "I haven't seen or heard from Alex, I swear. I *swear*."

"Okay," Peter said, though he still looked a little suspicious. "Let's keep it that way, okay?"

Neal nodded rapidly. "I promise. I really, really promise."

"We believe you, sweetie," El said, shooting Peter a look as she reached out and gave Neal another hug. "Now, how about that cake?"

o o o

"There's something wrong with him," El said in a low voice as she glanced out the window at Neal's slim figure silhouetted in the streetlight. "*Really* wrong."

"I know," Peter replied grimly. "I'm really worried. I think he might have some kind of con going on."

"Really?" El said, looking surprised. "A con?"

Peter shrugged. "The last time he changed his appearance like this, he escaped from SuperMax."

"So you think he did this to himself?" El questioned, sounding doubtful.

"Well, who else could have done it? I mean, okay, maybe Kramer grabbed a random bin at Goodwill and that's where he got those terrible clothes, but the haircut? Something is up with that. I'm thinking maybe he did it himself on the plane."

El's brow furrowed. "What kind of con involves destroying your hair?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, "but most of Neal's cons are beyond me. Carrier pigeons? Bakeries? Parachutes? He has a long history of absurdity when it comes to these things."

"It's not just the looks," El said, shaking her head. "There's something off about him. Did you hear him calling you 'Agent Burke'?"

Peter sighed. "Yeah. Obviously he's still mad at me, but I don't know what I can do to make it better."

"I don't know. I think it goes beyond that, hon. When I hugged him… I don't know… I can't really describe it. Something about the way he held me, like I was his last hope in a storm," she said, running a hand nervously through her hair. "And the way he's acting… It's just not like Neal. I don't know what they did to him in DC, but I don't think it was anything good."

"You think this was Phillip?" Peter asked, his face darkening. "I mean, it wouldn't surprise me if he did his best to make Neal's life miserable, but that wouldn't be enough to bring him down. Neal's too strong headed for that."

"Yeah," El said, shaking her head. "You're right. I mean, he's *Neal.* He always comes out on top. But the way he's acting… Something is seriously wrong. The way he acted when we showed him the cake? And now he's out there on the front porch all alone when he could be in here with us. He ducked out the first moment he had the chance. I don't care how upset he is about what happened, that's not normal. Not with us."

Peter sighed, glancing through the window at Neal, who was know sitting on the steps staring up at the sky. "I know. Something *is* up. I just wish I knew what."

"Why don't you go talk to him?" El suggested, squeezing his arm.

"I don't know that he wants me to," Peter said, the thought making him feel a little blue. "He's made it pretty clear that we're not friends any more."

"Give him a chance, hon," El said. "He'll come around." She leaned over, pressing a kiss against his temple. "I know how you feel about him," she said quietly, "and I know that, deep down, he still feels the same about you. You'll win him back. Go talk to him."

"Okay," Peter said, feeling a little heartened. He had such an amazing wife. He gave her hand a squeeze then stood, heading toward the door. He pushed it open, letting the screen swing shut behind him. Neal's shoulders tightened noticeably at the sound, the dim streetlight casting an orangish glow over his slim figure.

"Hey, buddy," Peter said, settling down on the step next to him, trying to ignore the way Neal sort of leaned away. "You star-gazing?" he joked as he looked upward at the empty sky, the biggest supernova not enough to conquer the lights of New York.

"You can't see the stars in DC, either," Neal replied in a voice so low that Peter could barely hear it. "Dark. It's all dark."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, "it's not exactly Van Gogh's 'A Starry Night.'" He looked over at the other man, brows raising as his eyes fell on a line of small, colorful animals arranged carefully around Neal's feet. "You've really made good use of those napkins."

Neal's body grew even more tense, if that was possible, and he reached down slowly, picking up a little yellow cat—no, a lion, Peter realized as he noted the little rips making up its mane—and holding it out to Peter, eyes carefully on the ground before him. "For you?"

Peter took it gently, giving Neal a smile even as his chest tightened with worry. El was right, something was very wrong here, something more than some clever con. "Thank you, Neal," he said quietly, spinning it around in his fingers.

"His name is Lincoln." There was an absent quality to the words, like the man was speaking from another world.

"They have names?" Peter questioned, setting the lion down on the step.

Neal looked him in the eye for the first time, and Peter's breath caught as he stared into those bright, blue depths. God, Neal was so handsome, even with his ratty clothes and terrible hair. No, he was more than handsome. He was beautiful.

"Yes. They have names. Personalities, too." Neal gave a short laugh at the troubled look Peter shot him, but it wasn't happy. "Don't worry, I'm not insane, Agent Burke. Not yet, anyway. I just have nothing better to do. Everyone needs friends. They're my little friends. You can tell Billings. He already knows. He's ripped up enough of them." The words were distinctly defensive.

Peter frowned. "You have friends here, Neal. Or you did. What happened?"

Neal picked up a little purple dragonfly, folded it flat, and carefully slipped it into his pocket. "I was bad. I know, I swear I do." A blue shark followed the dragonfly into Neal's pocket, then a mouse, then a lizard. "Three marks?"

Neal's voice made it clear that the words were a question, but Peter wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean. "Excuse me?"

"Is it more?" There was a hint of fear to his voice. "I'm sorry, Agent Burke. I thought it was three." His breath hitched a little. "It was El, wasn't it? I shouldn't have hugged your wife. I'm sorry, Agent Burke, I'm really, really sorry."

"Neal," Peter said, "please, tell me what's wrong." He reached out to wrap an arm around Neal's shoulders only to have the man duck and whimper. What the fuck was going on here? "Neal, please—"

Peter was cut off as the squeal of tires filled the air. His head jerked up, eyes widening as a black van careened toward them. Training kicking in, he grabbed Neal, wrapping his arms around him and hoisting him to his feet, trying to shove him out of the way. At the last second the van jerked to the right and the door slid open, revealing a pair of guys with ski mask and rather formidable looking guns.

Neal let out a cry of alarm as Peter grabbed for a gun that wasn't at his waist. He didn't wear his holster at home. He shoved Neal to the side, swinging a fist at the first guy, only to get a hard slam to the head with the butt of the second guy's rifle. As the world began to sway and blur, the last thing Peter saw was Neal's thrashing body being dragged into the van.

o o o

Neal's head was firmly buried in his knees and he didn't plan to come out anytime soon. If he'd still been the Neal from Before, he'd have been counting their turns and timing their travel, but it was all this Neal could do to keep himself from breaking down in a full out panic attack. He had Dougie Dragonfly clutched tightly in one hand, like a goddamn baby's blankie, and he was too afraid to even raise his head up enough to see what had happened to Peter. God, he was so pitiful. He disgusted himself, but he couldn't do anything about it. Kramer and Billings had thoroughly stripped him of the brazen courage that had made him who he was, leaving behind this ridiculous shell.

A groan echoed through the van and Neal froze, a mixture of fear and hope rushing through him. Fear because Peter was fearful, and hope because Peter was hopeful, too. Better than the strangers with guns who had pulled them into the van to begin with.

Neal let out cry as heavy hands came down on his shoulders, burying his face deeper in his knees.

"Neal? Neal, look at me! Neal, are you okay?"

Neal blinked, recognizing the voice as Peter's, and slowly raised his head just enough to see the other man.

Peter didn't look good. There was blood running down his face from a cut on his scalp and a nasty bruise was already forming on his face. His eyes were slightly out of focus, but his hands were steady on Neal.

"Wh-what happened?" Neal managed to choke out, feeling like he wanted to puke.

"Somebody grabbed us," Peter said grimly, as if that wasn't obvious. "Are you okay?"

Was he okay? Physically, sure. He was covered in bruises, but none of them were from the kidnapping. No, those were all courtesy of Billings. Mentally? Was he ever okay mentally? Not really, but he wasn't too much worse for the wear than he was every day, so he gave a nod. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm okay."

Peter nodded and sat back, brow furrowing. Neal sighed in relief as the other man's hands left his shoulders.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Peter questioned.

"No, sir," Neal replied, dropping his eyes. "I… I don't know."

"How long was I out?" Peter asked, voice growing urgent.

Neal gave a tiny shrug, bracing himself for the fist. "I-I don't know. I… I couldn't… I didn't… I—"

The van chose that moment to come to a screeching halt, pitching Peter forward into Neal. Neal whimpered as Peter's heavy body pressed down on him, flashbacks of Billings pressing him down into the mattress flooding his mind. "Please, don't…"

Peter shot him a strange look, but before he could say anything the door to the van swung open revealing the two masked men with their guns. A third man stood behind them, also wearing a ski mask, but he was different. The two guys who had grabbed them practically screamed 'hired guns' with their black clothing, beefy shoulders, and the easy way they handled the rifles in their hands. This new man was wearing a sleek looking grey suit with a tasteful red tie and charcoal dress shoes. He was medium height and build with sharp brown eyes. Beyond that Neal couldn't tell much physically, but he sensed immediately that this was the man in charge.

"Get them in the cells," the man said, his voice too low and monotonous to be his normal tone. He was being careful this one, making sure they wouldn't be able to identify his face or voice. That was good, Neal knew. It meant that there was a chance they would live.

"You should know that I'm an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Peter said in a harsh voice. "You do not want to do this."

"I know exactly who you are, Special Agent Peter Burke of the White Collar division," the man replied in that same deep monotone. "And I know about your little pet there, too. Neal Caffrey, former crime superstar, fallen so hard at your hands." He gestured at his men. "Take them."

Peter pressed himself harder against Neal. "You're not going to touch him."

Neal's eyes widened slightly, the pounding in his chest slowing a little. Shielding him. Peter was shielding him. That's why he was still on top of Neal. He was protecting him, just like he had in prison all those years ago. The question was, why?

"Oh, I think we will," the man replied, letting out a little chuckle as one of hisflunkies yanked Peter off of Neal, tugging the man's hands behind his back and snapping a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Peter let out a growling sounds, trying to shove him away, just getting a hard kick to the groin for his efforts.

"Come on, Neal," the man in the suit said, stepping up into the van. He moved over toward Neal, holding out a hand. "Let's go."

Neal took a deep breath, forcing down the panic rising in his chest. "Why would I go with you?" he said as bravely as he could, though the words came out pretty pitifully in his opinion. They definitely didn't have the arrogantly assured feel to them that he had been going for. Of course, when you were clutching to Dougie the dragonfly like he was your last hope, it was sort of hard to act like a man.

The man in the suit crouched down next to him, and Neal could tell he was smiling by the wrinkles next to his eyes. "Because I'm here to help you, Neal," he said as he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper, like he was telling a secret. Neal tensed as the man reached into his jacket, holding his breath as he slowly pulled something out of his pocket. "I'm on your side." Neal's eyes widened as the man opened his fist to reveal a tiny bird formed out of crisp folds of red paper. "I'm here to save you, Neal," he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Peter, who was now on his knees outside the van, glaring angrily up at his kidnappers. "I'm here to save you from *him.*" He reached out and took Neal's hand, gently settling the bird into his palm. "It's all going to be okay."

o o o

Peter paced the tiny cell for what had to be the twentieth time, kicking angrily at the thick steel bars that lined the front. He wasn't sure where they were, but it was definitely old school, a line of cells with three concrete walls and bars. There was no window and from the damp interior and the smell of mildew in the air, he guessed they were underground. There were no electric locks to hatch, just the heavy lock built into the bars and then a thick chain with a massive padlock placed over that for good measure.

It had been at least fifteen minutes since the thugs who'd grabbed them outside his house had dumped Peter here, but there was no sign of Neal. Endless scenarios were flashing through his mind of what they might be doing with the other man, and none of them ended well. What the hell was going on here? Who the hell had kidnapped them, and why?!

This was insane. The Keller thing… that had made sense. Okay, it had still been insane, because Keller was insane, but he'd kidnapped them for a reason. This… Not only did Peter have no clue who their kidnappers were, he had no idea why anyone would want to kidnap them. The U-boat treasure was gone, and Peter had nothing to give that was worth bringing the full wrath of the FBI down upon your head. He wasn't even sure who the target had been, himself or Neal. Hell, he didn't even know where Neal was, dammit!

Peter kicked the bars again, not that it made him feel much better. El had to know they were gone by now—God he wished he could see her sweet face—and Hughes would have every agent on it, but what good would that be when they had absolutely no idea *why* he'd been taken. Could it have something to do with his current case? Peter didn't see how. Their thief was like Neal, he ran when spooked. This wasn't his M.O. An old case, maybe? Or an old enemy of Neal's? There was no way it was a coincidence that they'd been taken on Neal's first day back in New York. Something was going on here, something he didn't yet understand.

"All right, kid, come on."

Peter moved over to the bars at the sound, pressing against them so he could see down the narrow pathway between the cells. One of the thugs who'd dragged them into the van was herding Neal down the hall. Peter let out a sigh of relief, a heavy weight lifting at the realization that Neal wasn't hurt.

"Okay, you're going in this one," the man said, coming to a stop at the cell next to Peter's. He gave Neal a shove, sending him stumbling forward into the cell, then slammed the door shut behind him, pulling the heavy metal keys off of his belt.

"What the hell do you want with us?" Peter growled, baring his teeth at the bastard.

The man ignored him, busying himself with securing the chain backing up the main lock.

"Talk to me!"

The man glanced over and Peter could practically see the smirk on the son of a bitch's face, ski mask or no ski mask. "Got nothin' to say." The lock in his hands clicked and he dropped the chain, letting it clank against the metal bars. "Don't worry, the boss will be down to chat soon enough."

Peter gripped the bars angrily as the man spun on his heel and took off back down the dim hallway, disappearing behind the corner.

"Neal," he said, moving over to the wall he shared with Neal, running his hands across the concrete like his touch might make it magically vanish. "Are you okay? What's going on? What do they want?"

There was no answer, just a soft sniffling sound. Was Neal crying? Peter had a hard time imagining Neal crying.

"Neal?" he said urgently, moving over to press his face through the bars as much as he could in an attempt to see into Neal's cell. Most of it was blocked from view, but Peter could see a few feet on the far right. "Neal, are you okay? Come here so I can see you."

There was another sniffling sound, then some rustling, and Neal appeared in the small section that Peter could see, shoulders hunched and eyes red.

"Hey," Peter said, reaching through the bars to try and touch Neal's hand. The other man took a step back, big blue eyes staring down at Peter's hand like it was a poisonous snake. Peter slowly withdrew it, brow furrowing with worry. "Neal, what's wrong?"

Neal lifted his eyes slowly to look at Peter. "It was more than three, wasn't it?" His voice was distant, like it had been earlier, as though his mind was someplace else entirely.

"What was more than three, Neal?" Peter asked slowly, like he was talking to an old person. He was beginning to think that Neal was in shock.

"Three marks." Neal reached into his pocket, pulling out one of those origami animals, some sort of red bird, and staring down at it like it held the answers to the universe. "Just tell me why, Peter," he said after a long moment, blue eyes lifting to meet Peter's. "Was it El? The kidnapping. Because, I swear to God, I never meant to hurt her. I would never hurt El."

Peter frowned deeply. "I know you wouldn't, Neal."

"So why then?" Neal slammed a hand suddenly against the bars, making Peter jump. "Why? Why did you do this to me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Neal," Peter said, confused as hell.

Neal's eyes went cold. "Bullshit. I'm tired of not talking about it! Tell me why or I'll give them what they want. Tell me!"

"Wait, you'll give them what they want? What do they want, Neal?" Peter asked urgently.

"It doesn't matter," Neal said shortly. "Tell me why. Please, Peter, give me a reason." He sounded choked up. "I need to understand why you'd do this to me…" He ran a hand over his head, looking like he was on the edge of tears. "I thought we were friends."

"Neal, if you're talking about DC—I didn't have any choice!"

Neal's eyes flashed. "Fine. Don't tell me. But don't blame me when your body washes up on the riverfront." He turned and walked away, taking him our of Peter's view.

"Neal, what the fuck are you talking about?" Peter said to the concrete wall, hitting it in frustration. "Neal!"

"Oh, I think you know what he's talking about, Peter Burke," a deep voice said. Peter turned, his lip turning up as he took in the man in the suit, still sporting his ski mask, one of his lackeys at his side.

"I have no fucking idea," Peter snapped. "What did you tell him?"

"Tell him?" The man laughed coldly. "What is there to tell? I think your actions have spoken much louder than any of my words could."

Peter shook his head, mind screaming in frustration. What the *hell* was going on here? "I don't know what you're talking about!"

The man clucked, shaking his head. "Sure you don't." He raised his voice. "Oh Neal… What's the first rule of training?"

There was a moment of silence before Neal spoke up, his voice dull and emotionless. "That you don't talk about it."

"Right. And Agent Burke here is really holding well to that rule." The man reached into his jacket, pulling out a handgun. "Now, you're going to come with me, nice and easy, so we can have a little chat."

"I don't want to chat," Peter snapped furiously.

"Too bad," the man responded shortly, holding up his firearm. "Because you don't have a choice." He turned slightly. "Mike, come get Burke out of here, take him upstairs. It's time for a little one on one with our lucky Fed."

o o o

Neal stared down at the little bird in his hands, heart pounding fast. Every nerve in his body felt like it was on red alert, and sitting still was killing him. He wanted to get up and scream and kick and jump and do anything, *anything* to distill the nervous tension inside him. He hadn't felt this out of control since prison when he'd been sent to the hole for a week for stealing a guard's candy bar.

The little bird stared right back up at him, its gaze unwavering. It was the color of freshly spilt blood before it began to dry and brown, the kind that spouted like a fountain from the nose when you were punched in the face. But it was also beautiful, with wide spread wings that reminded Neal of his old self, so free, ready to take flight.

Take flight. That was exactly what he should have done when Moz had first shown him the U-boat treasure. If he'd gotten in that plane, his whole life would be different. Elizabeth would never have been kidnapped, Peter would never have turned on him, the Marshals would never have taken him, Billings would never have touched him. As if the music box hadn't led to vile enough things, it was like that fucking treasure was cursed. Even now it was why he was here.

Of course, the real question was whether being here was really a bad thing. The red bird wasn't one of his little friends, wasn't to be trusted, not like Finny Flamingo or Lincoln Lion. It didn't even have a name. It was a total unknown tossing out promises. Neal knew that, in all likelihood, it was nothing but nothing but a liar, but he was so desperate…

All he had to do was give Little Red Bird's master his share of the treasure and the man in the suit would return Neal's clipped wings. No one would ever hurt him again.

Promises, promises.

Neal didn't care about the stupid treasure, not anymore. He'd been living like a dog for the past nine months. Just having a full meal was like finding a U-boat packed with amazing artwork. But if he gave them the treasure, he gave them Peter, too.

Red Bird Man had thrown it out there like a pink diamond waiting to be grabbed, his plans for Peter, like he expected it to sweeten the pot and seal the deal with Neal, but deep down inside it had made him quiver. Could he really take part in something that would almost surely lead to Peter's death? Even if he put aside all the people it would hurt, the idea was terrifying.

'It's what he deserves,' came a whisper in his head and Neal reached in his pocket, pulling out his collection of tiny napkin animals, all flattened down to fit in his pocket. His fingers moved nimbly as he brought them back to life, one by one.

'He did this to you,' the voice said again, and Neal plucked Simon Serpent from the group, staring him down. He was a tricky little snake, always looking for a chance to strike.

"I can't…" Neal shook his head, tears rising in his eyes. "I don't care. I… I can't do this, not to Peter."

'He raped you,' Simon hissed in his mind. 'Humiliated you. *Destroyed* you. Let him have a taste of his own medicine.'

'It was your own fault,' Oscar the owl cut in, always the arrogant know it all. 'If you hadn't lied and cheated at every turn, none of this would have happened. Whatever went down was all on you. You're a thief and a liar and a whore. You only got what you deserved, and if you listen to that foul little cardinal down there, you're just proving to the world what you are. An immoral, disgusting piece of trash.'

Neal sniffed, rubbing a hand across his face. "I'm sorry… I am. What else can I do?"

'You still love him,' Sheila Swan sang out. 'Silly, silly, silly love. But he doesn't love you. If you stay with him he'll tear you apart…'

'Who cares? It's better than Billings." Brenda the bear was ever logical. At least with Peter, you can pretend it doesn't hurt. You can imagine he still cares.'

'Maybe he does still care. You never were good at judging him, sweetie. Maybe deep down, underneath it all, he really does care. He always did mix hurting with helping.'

Neal picked up Finny, shaking his head. "When did you start sounding like Elizabeth?"

Unsurprisingly he didn't answer, you know, since he was paper and all.

Neal let his head fall back against the concrete with a thump, exhaustion washing over him. If his little chorus of paper pets couldn't help, then he didn't know what to do. Better to get some sleep and see if things were clearer when he was rested, and possibly a little less insane. Then he'd see what Little Red Bird had to say.


	5. Ch 4: Bad News Bird

**Title:** Origami Soul  
**Author: **Amory Puck (pucktheplayer on LJ)  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Warnings: **Slash, non-con, dub-con, angst, h/c, physical & mental torture  
**Pairings:** Peter/Neal, Kramer/Neal, Other DC Agent/Neal

**Author's Notes:** It has been so long since I worked on this that I actually had forgotten the (very complicated) plot and had to rework it, which made this a difficult chapter to write! Hope that you like it, though! :)

o o o

**Chapter 4: Bad News Bird**

o o o

Peter gritted his teeth as he strained at the thin pieces of rope binding him to the chair. Considering that the twine had been wrapped around his wrists and ankles at least a dozen times, it was pretty much futile, but he tried anyway. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

Soon after Neal had been returned to his cell, a muscle man had come for Peter, dragging him down a damp, mildewy hallway and into a large, dark room that looked like some kind of basement. There were stairs leading up out of it, anyway, which confirmed Peter's suspicions that they were underground.

Neal's anklet had been cut, but by now the FBI would have traced the van's route along the CCTV cameras, narrowing down their location. After El had been kidnapped, Peter had installed a CCTV cam on his porch, so they would know what the van looked like. El had laughed at him for being paranoid at the time, but now he was damn glad he had done it.

Right now, all Peter really needed to do was stall. These guys weren't exactly professionals, with their noticeably creepy getaway vehicle and their ski masks. The Feds would find them soon. Peter just had to make sure that these guys didn't hurt him or Neal in the meantime.

From the way Neal had been acting, Peter was pretty sure they'd done something to him, or maybe drugged him up, because he hadn't been making much sense. Protecting Neal had to be his number one priority. He was Peter's responsibility, after all.

Peter yanked at the ropes again, glancing around the now empty room for something he could use to cut them. The only thing in the place was a small projector and a video camera set a few feet away. Maybe if he could shift his chair toward it, he could break the lamp set up next to it and use the glass to cut his ropes…

"Well, well, if it isn't Agent Burke."

Peter looked up sharply, scowling as the masked man in the suit descended the stairs slowly. He had come from the top, not from the underground entrance they had dragged Peter through, which was good news. If these guys were set up above ground, also, then it would be easier for the Feds to find them.

"What do you want from me?" Peter growled, more to waste time than anything. Behind the man in the suit were three other guys in ski masks, obviously muscle men. That wasn't good.

He could practically see the man grinning behind his mask, the bastard. "Why, this is an excellent opportunity, is it not? Having an FBI agent in our possession. Oh, think of the ransom!"

Peter snorted. "Excellent opportunity? You mean a suicide mission. The Feds don't negotiate with kidnappers, asshole. All having a Fed in your little dungeon will do is get you caught faster."

"How about you let me worry about that?" the man said, waving Peter's words away as he moved over toward the camera area and flipped on the lamp, pointing it at Peter.

Peter squinted at the sudden glare, grimacing as his eyes rushed to adjust from the dim shadows to bright lights. "You're making a mistake. A big mistake."

"You think so?" the man asked, though Peter could only see a dark outline of him now due to the light shining in his eyes. "I think we're doing okay, but then everyone is entitled to their opinion."

Despite the man's almost playful banter, his voice was still held an octave or two lower than normal, and his words had an awkward sort of tempo to them. Okay, maybe these guys weren't total unprofessionals. This one, at least, seemed to know how to make sure you couldn't describe him. His suit was a little too large, making it impossible to guess his real body build, and Peter had a feeling he might be wearing shoes with lifts, because he was awfully tall. Peter had no way of knowing anything beyond the fact that he was a caucasian male of average weight.

"Okay," the man said, stepping forward where Peter could see him clearly again. "I think we're ready." He walked over, settling a sheet of paper in Peter's lap. "We're making a little film for your fellow agents, Burke. Do me a favor and read it with feeling."

Peter shot him a look. "And why the hell should I do that? It won't do you any good. Like I said, they aren't going to negotiate, and they don't need to. My team will find you and rip you apart."

"Oh, I'm terrified," the man replied dryly. "Now read the paper." He stepped back behind the camera. "And, action!"

Peter glanced down at the sheet in his lap, then back up, scowling. "Why should I?"

"Well," the man said slowly, "because if you don't, we're going to take it out on your favorite pet criminal."

"He's not my pet criminal," Peter snapped, "his name is Neal Caffrey, and if you touch a single hair on his head, I will kill you."

"Oh, I think we're past that point," the man replied dryly. There was an audible click as the man hit a button on the camera, then a loud groan came out of the darkness.

"Stop," came Neal's voice, sounding panicked. A thud and then another groan. "Please, stop." The man hit the button again, and it went silent. Bastards had tortured Neal and *taped* it?

Peter stiffened, sitting up straight and glaring into the lights, teeth bared. "What did you do to him?" he said, voice furious.

The man chuckled. "Nothing serious. Just a few bruises. Nothing permanent. Neal will heal up fine. But that could change, if you keep being difficult. I suggest you do as you're told and read the paper." His voice was mockingly sweet. "It's your choice."

"Fine," Peter said coldly. "I'll read it. But you're going to be sorry you laid a hand on him, I promise you that."

"I'm sure," the man sarcastically, idly adjusting the angle of the camera. "And, action!"

Peter clenched his jaw, looking down at the paper in his lap. He really didn't want to give this prick the satisfaction, but what choice did he have? Obviously they had no qualms about hurting Neal. "My name is Agent Peter Burke and I—"

"I said with feeling," the man interrupted, sounding annoyed. "Put some life into it, Agent Burke, or poor little Neal will face the consequences."

"Okay, okay," Peter snapped. "What are you, president of the Thespian society?" He cleared his throat, starting again. "My name is Agent Peter Burke and I work for the White Collar Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York City. I was taken from my front porch, along with my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

"A little more feeling, Burke. Put some fire into it, or I might have to put some fire to your boy."

Peter's face went hot with anger and he yanked at his bonds again. "Don't you fucking dare!"

"See, that's what I'm looking for," the man said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Please continue."

Peter gripped tightly at the arms of the chair, wishing more than anything he could go all Hulk on this bastard. "I have been told by my captors that Caffrey is disposable." Peter's stomach churned at the words. "And that any bad behavior will be taken out of his ass." Out of his ass? How poetic. "If you comply by the following orders, my kidnappers will return us both safely, but if you mess up, Caffrey dies. It's that simple."

That simple, huh? Peter would show them 'that simple' when he got his goddamn gun back.

"They want one hundred thousand dollars in non-sequential bills delivered to the attached GPS coordinates."

A hundred thousand dollars? These fools had kidnapped a *federal agent* for one hundred thousand dollars? Were they out of their mind? They should have just robbed a goddamn bank.

"At the drop site, you will find a rock with six marks on it, making the shape of a diamond. There is a safe buried below it. Put it in the ground. Don't bother with any attempts to case the area before hand. My captor says that he is well trained, betrayal won't happen. Any pitiful attempts will be handled with extreme punishment."

Extreme punishment? This little dialogue was getting weirder and weirder. Peter supposed it was sort of theatrical, but it didn't make much sense. How did you hand the FBI "extreme punishment?" Well, other than offing their agent. Peter supposed that would fit the bill.

"If this turns into a mess, Caffrey won't be able to walk for a year." And yet another threat against Neal. Obviously somebody knew his weak spot. "Follow these directions exactly, or Caffrey is going to get hurt. Once the money is retrieved he will abandon Caffrey and I, and send you the coordinates of where to find us. I say to do this if you want us to live."

"Cut!" the masked man called out as he flicked off the lamp. "Good job, Burke. Very powerful. Deserves an Emmy, that one."

"You're crazy, you know that?" Peter said, glaring at the man. "Kidnapping a Fed for a hundred thou? That's insane. You're a fool."

"Says the man who spends every day hanging out with a felon," the man replied cooly. "But then I suppose you have him well trained."

"Damn straight, I have him well trained, so if you think you're going to get him to flip and help you, you're a fool."

"And here I thought DC was his new 'trainer." The man made quotation marks in the air. "Perhaps he's not as loyal to you as you think."

"How did you know that?" Peter asked, suddenly suspicious. This wouldn't be the first time he'd faced off against an inside man, after all.

The man laughed. "You would be amazed at what I know, Burke. For example, I know that Agent Phillip Kramer had an equal percentage of solved cases with none of the discipline problems. It seems to me that Neal's loyalty may have shifted during his time in DC."

"Kramer didn't do shit," Peter retorted, eyes flashing. "Neal has been my responsibility from the start, and he would never betray me. Who the hell are you? If this is an inside job, you should know that men who mess with me don't tend to hang around long."

The man walked over, stopping directly in front of Peter and bending down so they were at eye level. He had brown eyes with little wrinkles on the edges. Another feature for Peter's list. "Burke, I'm going to give you a chance here. You were right when you said it would be mad to kidnap a Fed for pocket change. You see, the video is simply something to feed your people, to buy us time. I don't want the money, not really."

"Then what do you want?" Peter asked in a low voice, narrowing his eyes. "What's this really about?"

"Your cooperation," the man replied, standing back up and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Not gonna happen," Peter shot back immediately. "You've got the wrong man. I'm not the sort of guy that can be bought."

The man laughed. "Relax, Burke, I'm not asking you to violate any of your precious morals. All I want is for you to take a good, hard look at Caffrey. I have a bone to pick with that man, a real old bone. That's real reason I took this job to begin with."

"What do you mean, 'took this job'?" Peter said. "Someone else is behind this?"

"Oh, Agent Burke, your naivete is refreshing," the man said, shaking his head. "Don't you get it yet? Caffrey betrayed you, just like he did me, a long time ago. That's what he is. A liar and a thief. No amount of crime fighting rehab can change that."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Bullshit. Neal did not betray me."

The man nodded slowly. "Right… Because nothing seemed off about him in the airport, right? Altering one's appearance to the point of being unrecognizable is completely normal. And everybody sits out on the porch at nighttime when there's a little party in their honor going on inside. We just got lucky on that one—Neal had nothing to do with arranging the pickup. Totally a 'right place, right time' sort of thing."

Peter's lips tightened into a thin line, shoulders stiffening. No. It couldn't be true. There was no way. Yeah, Neal had seemed a little off and, yeah, he had been doing some strange things, but he wouldn't turn on Peter like that, not after everything Peter had done for him. Would he?

"Why the hell would Neal have arranged for us both to be kidnapped?" he shot back. "You're grasping at straws with this. If you think you're going to turn me on him, then you obviously don't know me very well."

"Or maybe," the man countered, "you don't know him very well. Think about it, Peter." He walked back toward the camera, but this time he hit the little projector beside it, lighting up the grungy wall. "I know you're quite the investigator. How about a little evidence?"

An image appeared suddenly, with a small time stamp in the corner. It was obviously from sort of security camera, so it was a little fuzzy, but Peter could make out Neal sitting hunched over at a small cafe table on the far right. His hair was even shorter than it was now, practically bald except for a few fuzzy patches, and he was wearing oversized sweat pants and a t-shirt the color of puke. Across from him was a large man in a suit that practically screamed 'agent.'

"Do you know what day this was taken, Agent Burke?" the man asked, continuing on without waiting for Peter to answer. "It's his first day in DC. Tell me, Peter… How did you explain this new look to yourself? That DC was so thrifty Caffrey had to pull his clothes out of a trash bin? That one night he got bored and took up shaving his head in the dark as a hobby? That the DC agents were such big old meanie heads they made him dress icky to make him all pouty?" The man chuckled at the last one. "I'm sure you came up with some reason that DC changed him so much. But the thing is, Peter… He arrived in DC like that."

Peter's brow furrowed. "What? No, he didn't. He was escorted onto the plane by two Marshals. I saw it myself. And he *didn't* look like that?"

"But did you see him get off the plane?" the man replied. "I don't know how he did it—maybe the Marshals just didn't care—but this photo was taken his first day with his handler. The time stamp proves that. Somewhere between here and Washington DC, the handsome and charming Neal Caffrey transformed himself into a bum."

"Why the hell would he do that?" Peter asked, shaking his head. "What's the point?"

The man put a finger on his chin, tapping it gently as he pretended to think. "Hm… Tell me, Peter, who is more of a threat? A well dressed, classy man with good looks, a charming manner, and high intelligence or a messy, dirty, trashy looking bum who spends most of his time sitting around doing nothing? Which one would you watch more closely?"

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, puzzle pieces starting to fall into place. He knew it was insane to listen to the person who had fucking kidnapped him, but this, at least, made sense. There was no other reason Peter could even imagine for Neal to do that to himself. In fact, it smelled a lot like his little plan to escape from prison.

"Next we have the DC office," the man said, clicking a button on the projector and bringing up a video of a large room crowded with men and women in suits, working away. Neal's desk was the closest to the camera, and unlike his co-workers, Neal wasn't typing or filing or reading. He was folding paper.

Long, nimble fingers carefully folded a sheet of newsprint, slowly forming some kind of bird. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, lips pursed as he slid his nails along a fold to make it crisp and neat.

Peter watched as the agent he had seen with Neal in the last photo walked up behind him, his hand coming down suddenly on Neal's shoulder.

Neal practically leapt into the air, eyes going wide as he immediately crumpled the little animal in his hand, shoving it under his desk as he looked up at the man with a nervous expression. What the hell?

The video froze, Neal's almost frightened eyes staring up at the agent.

"You remember the messages, don't you, Peter?" the man in the mask questioned. "Little origami birds and plants. Imagine if each one meant something unique. A complex code in such a simple thing."

Peter swallowed hard as an image of Alex Hunter flashed through his mind. Was she in DC? He hadn't heard anything about it, but she was a hard person to track. Either way, the animals had to mean something. Why else would Neal have looked so nervous when the agent walked up? If it was just a hobby, why had he tried so hard to hide what he was doing?

Peter bit his lip as he remembered the little flamingo Neal had given El. Had that been some sort of symbol, too, an inside joke on him?

No. No, that was crazy. Peter knew Neal, he trusted Neal. This man here had *kidnapped* him, for God's sake. Why should he believe a word the bastard said? Even if it did sort of make sense.

Seriously, why else would Neal wear an Oscar the Grouch tie if not for some kind of con? Peter didn't have a clue.

"You don't have to trust me," the man said as if he could read Peter's mind. "I'm not asking you to work with us. All I'm asking is that you take a good, hard look at the things Neal has been doing. I want the bastard put away, for a long, long time. I want him to suffer, the way I suffered. As of now, Caffrey has no idea that his little plan has gone awry. We've got everything set up so that it will look as if he gave us his part of the treasure in exchange for release, when in reality he just paid us to make it look that way and hid it somewhere. When this is over, he will honestly believe that you think it's gone. You don't even have to lie to him—you can just go along with *his* lies. Yet again he has betrayed your trust and put you in danger. Think about it, Peter."

The man clicked off the projector, gesturing for one of the muscle men to come over. "Watch him. I'm going to check to make sure the empty warehouse has enough traces of paint and gold to be believable. We want Caffrey to think Burke believes the treasure is really gone."

"Got it boss," the guy said, nodding.

The man started up the stairs then paused, looking back at Peter. "Just remember, Burke. The enemy of your enemy is your friend."

o o o

Neal looked up as the chain on his cell door clanked, shrinking down against the wall as one of the men in ski masks opened the lock. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as tight as he could, like they were some sort of security blanket.

Man, he was pitiful, whimpering in the corner like a little dog, but he couldn't help it. That's what Neal felt like these days, a bruised and beaten dog, and he couldn't help but slink away. All his strength had been lost to Billings' big fists on his face and dick up his ass. Neal couldn't even remember what it felt like to be strong and brave. It was like he'd been useless and disgusting forever.

The cell door slid open and Neal stared at the man behind it with wide eyes. "Please," he said in a voice that came out whiny and desperate, "I'll give you the treasure. Just leave me alone."

"Hey there," the man said in a gentle voice, approaching Neal like you might approach a scared deer, hands extended and feet slow and steady. "It's okay, Neal. I'm not here to hurt you."

Neal let out a short laugh. "Because guys wearing ski masks outside the bunny slopes are always such stand up people."

The man let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. "I guess you're right." He paused. "Will it make you feel better if I take it off?"

"No," Neal said in a small voice, hunching down even further. "Because that would mean you're going to kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you, Neal," the man said softly, moving around to Neal's side and slowly lowering himself until he was sitting on the floor next to him. "That's not why we kidnapped you. Hell, we didn't want to kidnap you at all, but we couldn't think of another way to contact you without Burke being suspicious. If just looking at a colleague can get you a discipline mark, I can't imagine what talking to a total stranger would earn you."

Neal licked his lips nervously. "How do you know about that? How do any of you know about that? The first rule of training—"

"—Is that you don't talk about training," the man finished. "I know because I've seen the tapes, Neal. We've been inside Burke's computer, and he has a pretty big library about you going on in there." He shook his head. "He's a real sicko."

Neal bit his lip, not wanting to imagine why Peter kept tapes of Neal being tortured on his computer. "Please just go. I've already told you where the treasure is."

"Neal," the man said in a low voice, "we're not here for the treasure. We're here for you."

Neal looked up sharply, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wh-what? Why do you want me?"

"Because we don't want what happened to you to happen to anyone else," the man said. "Did you really think you were the first one, Neal? Or that Billings, Kramer, and Burke are the only ones who do it? You were actually one of the lucky ones, working from the office. But most of their so-called informants get to spend their days in a cell with no windows, all alone, the only contact they have with the world when one of these bastard agents shows up and tortures them for information."

"That… That's not possible," Neal whispered, shaking his head. "I worked with Peter for over three years. If he did that, I'd have known about it."

"Why?" the man countered. "Everybody knew that you got your intel from your old contacts, but where did Peter get his?"

Neal shook his head, really confused. "F-from the Bureau."

"Neal," the man said gently, "Burke had an eighty four percent closure rate *before* he teamed up with you. Do you have any idea how amazing that is? There's a reason he's a senior agent. There's a reason that all of them are senior agents. The average agent has a forty-four percent closure rate, and do you know why?"

"Why?" Neal asked in a small voice when it became obvious that the man was waiting for a reply.

"Because they play by the books. Because they don't hurt people to get what they want. I told you, I saw the videos. Burke destroyed you." He paused, ducking his head. "And Neal, I saw it first hand, too."

"What do you mean?" Neal asked, feeling more lost than ever.

The man reached up and slowly peeled back his mask, looking Neal straight in the eyes.

"Agent Robin?" Neal whispered, not quite believing what he saw. The new probie in the DC office was one of his kidnappers?

"Agent Banks, actually," he said, giving Neal a kind smile. "Internal Affairs."

"Wait a second," Neal said suspiciously. "Since when do Internal Affairs kidnap people?"

"I told you," he said, "we had to talk to you, and we couldn't risk Burke being suspicious. See, this whole mess is big, real big. We don't even know how high up the ladder it goes. We need your help to figure that out."

Neal shook his head rapidly. "Me? I… I can't."

"Yes, you can, Neal," Banks said firmly, reaching out and gently laying a hand on Neal's arm. Neal had to grit his teeth to keep from flinching away. "I know they've done terrible things to you, but I also know that you are smart, talented, and capable. Not to mention as strong as hell. We need you, Neal. We can't do this without you."

"No," Neal whispered, dropping his eyes. "I'm useless."

"That's what people like Agent Burke want you to believe, Neal," Banks said in an earnest voice, "but it's not true. You're amazing, Neal. Amazing. Honestly, it's an honor to have the chance to work with you."

Neal's face reddened, a strangely warm feeling blooming in his chest. It had been a long time since anyone had said something like that to him. A really, really long time.

"But the other guy… He said he wanted the treasure, and that he wanted to frame Peter for stealing it then kill him." Neal's voice shook a little on the last words.

"I'm sorry about that, Neal," Banks said, "but we wanted to get a recording of us offering you the deal and you refusing so we can slip it to Burke at some point if he starts to get suspicious of you. We wanted it to sound real, so we didn't tell you about it."

Neal huffed with laughter. "And what if I had accepted?"

Banks gave him a tender smile. "We knew you wouldn't. You're a good man, Neal, and we appreciate you. Please, work with us."

Neal dropped his eyes, tightening his grip on his knees. "I-I don't know," he said in a shaky voice. Just the idea of telling someone about training made him want to pee his pants, and the idea of betraying Peter… it was painful. Even after everything, deep down inside Neal still believed that Peter cared about him. "I could with Billings and Kramer, but I don't think I could with Peter."

"I know it's hard, Neal," Banks said, slowly moving his hand from Neal's arm to his back, rubbing gentle circles. "You spent a lot of time with Burke, and you thought you were friends. It was just a facade, though, Neal. A friendly manner to keep up while you were being a good boy. He could get more out of you that way. But the second he lost control of you, the real Burke came out, didn't it, Neal?"

Neal swallowed down the lump in his throat, eyes beginning to water as he remembered the first time he'd heard Peter's voice over the speakerphone, the way his heart had broken into a million pieces. From then on it had been finders, keepers, losers, weepers. Neal wasn't sure he'd ever be able to put himself back together. Still…

"He was my friend," Neal said in a small voice. "I haven't even talked to him about it yet."

"You really think he'll let you talk about it, Neal?" Banks said in a quiet voice. He reached into his pocket. "I didn't want to have to show you this, because I really, really don't want to hurt you anymore. You've been through so much. But you need to know, for real, how dangerous Burke it."

He pulled out a small tape recorder, his hand moving from Neal's back around his body, until he had his arm around Neal's shoulders, loosely enough that it didn't make him panic, but tightly enough that he felt oddly safe.

"Here we go," Banks said softly, clicking the play button.

There was a moment of crackling, then the monotone voice Neal recognized from the van spoke.

"Don't you think you should cooperate with us, Burke? We have your partner."

"Caffrey is disposable," came Peter's cold voice, and Neal stiffened, heart speeding up.

"For all you know, he's in this with us," the man countered, and Peter sort of huffed.

"Neal did not betray me. He couldn't. He is well trained, betrayal won't happen. Any pitiful attempts will be handled with extreme punishment, the kind where Caffrey can't walk for a year."

Neal let out a soft whimper, and Banks tightened his grip slightly, pulling Neal up against him.

"Yes… I heard about Kramer's little training program in DC."

"Kramer didn't do shit," Peter snapped back, sounding furious. Apparently he didn't like the other agent getting his glory. "Neal has been my responsibility from the start."

"It's an interesting system," the man continued on as if Peter hadn't spoken. "The whole discipline mark thing. Tell me, Agent Burke, aside from the whole kidnapping fiasco, how many marks has Neal earned today?"

"How did you know that?" Peter said, sounding suspicious.

The man laughed. "You would be amazed what I know. So tell me. How many marks?"

"Six marks," Peter replied gruffly, and Neal felt his stomach twist. "Bad behavior will be taken out of his ass."

Six marks? When could he have possibly acquired six marks?! He'd barely been off the plane an hour! Neal didn't realize he was making small sounds of panic until Banks gave him a squeeze and pulled him into a tighter hug.

"So you don't care what happens to Neal?" the man asked. "As long as you get out okay?"

"I say abandon Caffrey," Peter replied simply. "Return us both safely or not. I don't care if Caffrey is going to die."

Neal sucked in a sharp breath of air, a tear escaping down his cheek as the words stabbed at his heart. What an idiot he'd been to ever believe that Peter cared about him, to ever believe that anyone cared about him. They all left, didn't they? He was stupid and useless and worthless and no one cared. Not even Peter. Especially not Peter.

Banks hit the stop button on the recorder and wrapped his other arm around Neal, holding him tight. "I'm so sorry, Neal," he whispered as Neal began to sob into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. The man's a dirtbag. Please, please help us take him down."

Neal's head swam as image after image hit him, fists and smiles and whips and laughs and hurt and happiness, all mixed together in a big pot of confusion and pain. His whole world was such a twisted mess. Neal couldn't even tell his friends from his enemies anymore, but he did know one thing for certain. If he'd gotten six marks in two hours, he wasn't going to survive a month with Peter Burke.

"Okay," Neal whispered, holding onto agent Banks like he was his lifeline, "I'll help you."

What choice did he have?


End file.
